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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


SectM       /TV®/ 


L 


/0S«{  OF  PS/^ 


A 


POEM  SV 


JUN  7  1985 


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}.*g 


^ 


BY 


HENBY    HABBAUGH, 

AUTHOR    OF  "THE    SAINTED    DEAD,"   "HEAVENLY  EEC  0  G  NI  TIO  N  ," 
"HEAVENLY    HOME,"  "BIBDS    OF    THE    BIBLE,"  ETC. ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
LINDSAY    &    BLAKISTON 

18G0. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 
LINDSAY    &    BLAKISTON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  .District  of  Pennsylvania. 

STEREOTYPED  BY  J.  FAGAN,   PHILADELPHIA. 


CONTENTS 


Poems. 

Page 

The  Mystic  Weaver 13 

Neander's  Dying  Words 21 

Through  Death  to  Life 24 

Heavenly  Recognition 29 

Conestoga 32 

That  Aged  Elm 35 

Roses!  Roses  ! 45 

Here  are  the  Dead! 49 

1*  (v) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Poems. 

To  Emmie..  52 

The  Cross 55 

Birds 57 

The  Ruins  of  Nineveh 61 

The  Old  and  the  New 65 

The  Song  of  the  Autumn  Wind 67 

New  Year's  Eve 70 

The  March  of  Empire 78 

The  Sill  beneath  the  Door 82 

Gethsemene 85 

The  Rain.... 91 

Laura  Amanda's  Grave...  94 

The  Soul's  Aspirations 96 

Death  in  a  Bail-Room 99 

The  Song  of  the  Autumn  Rain 105 

Faith,  Hennie! 107 

The  Gate  to  the  Land  of  the  Blest 110 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

Poems. 

Away  and  Away  ! 113 

The  Spirit's  Eventide , 115 

Death  of  the  Pastor's  Wife 117 

Hidden  Toil 122 

The  Water-Lily 125 

The  Power  of  Love , 130 

The  Swan 136 

The  Vampire  Sin 138 

The  Twin  Fishers 140 

Winter  and  the  Grave 148 

Christ  the  Loveliest 150 

Behold  the  Man ! 152 

Tolling!  Tolling! 155 

Speak  Gently 157 

Our  School-Boy  Days 100 

Joy , 162 

Matins  and  Vespers 164 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

Poems. 

Dying 166 

May  is  Coming 168 

Our  Saviour's  Advent 171 

Oh!  Value  the  Hour  as  it  Hasteth ! 174 

New  Year's  Midnight 176 

The  Song  of  the  Trees 179 

The  Ostrich 184 

The  Two  Prophets 186 

The  Swallows 188 

A  Confirmation  Hymn 191 

Hymn 194 

The  Bright  Land 196 

A  Bud 200 

The  Summer  Visit 202 

Great  Effects  from  Little  Causes 205 

Cold  Distance 208 

Pious  Friends 210 


CONTENTS.  IX 

Poems. 

Birds  of  Prey  prohibited  as  Food 211 

The  Good  Stork 213 

The  Poor  Drunkard 215 

Dedication  for  an  Album 217 

Stanzas 219 

Epilogue 221 

The  Intermediate  Abode 229 

Remembrance  of  Earth  in  Heaven 230 

The  Crisis 232 

Smoking  Spiritualized 234 

Fire  at  Hamburg,  and  the  Old  Bell-Player 240 

The  Hiding  Place 252 

To  Anna 254 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Classmate 25G 

Child's  Christmas  Hymn 261 

The  Song  of  the  Rill 264 


X  CONTENTS. 

Translations. 

Hymn  of  Beneventura 269 

The  Lord's  Prayer 273 

The  Eagle 277 

Our  Native  Land 280 

At  the  Grave  of  my  Father 282 

The  Grave  giveth  Rest 284 


POEMS. 


(in 


POEMS. 


THE    MYSTIC  WEAVER 

i. 

At  his  loom  the  weaver  sitting 
Throws  his  shuttle  to  and  fro; 

Foot  and  treadle, 

Hands  and  pedal, 

Upward,  downward, 

Hither,  thither, 

How  the  weaver  makes  them  go ! 

As  the  weaver  wills  they  go. 

Up  and  down  the  warp  is  plying, 

And  across  the  woof  is  flying; 

2  (13) 


14  POEMS. 

What  a  rattling, 

What  a  battling, 

What  a  shuffling, 

What  a  scuffling, 
As  the  weaver  makes  his  shuttle, 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 

Threads  in  single, 
Threads  in  double; 

How  they  mingle, 
What  a  trouble ! 

Every  color  — 
What  profusion ! 

Every  motion  — 
What  confusion ! 
Whilst  the  warp  and  woof  are  mingling, 
Signal  bells  above  are  jingling, 
Telling  how  each  figure  ranges, 
Telling  when  the  color  changes, 
As  the  weaver  makes  his  shuttle 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 


THE    MYSTIC    WEAVER.  15 

II. 

At  his  loom  the  weaver  sitting 

Throws  his  shuttle  to  and  fro; 
'Mid  the  noise  and  wild  confusion, 
"Well  the  weaver  seems  to  know, 
As  he  makes  his  shuttle  go, 
What  each  motion  — 
And  commotion, 
What  each  fusion  — 
And  confusion, 

In  the  grand  result  will  show: 
Weaving  daily, 
Singing  gaily, 

As  he  makes  his  busy  shuttle, 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 

in. 
At  his  loom  the  weaver  sitting 

Throws  his  shuttle  to  and  fro; 
See  you  not  how  shape  and  order 


16  POEMS. 

From  the  wild  confusion  grow, 
As  he  makes  his  shuttle  go? 
As  the  warp  and  woof  diminish, 
Grows  behind  the  beauteous  finish : 
Tufted  plaidings, 
Shapes  and  shadings; 
All  the  mystery 
Now  is  history; 
And  we  see  the  reason  subtle 
Why  the  weaver  makes  his  shuttle, 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 

IV. 

See  the  Mystic  Weaver  sitting 

High  in  heaven  —  His  loom  below. 
Up  and  down  the  treadles  go : 
Takes  for  warp  the  world's  long  ages, 
Takes  for  woof  its  kings  and  sages, 
Takes  the  nobles  and  their  pages, 
Takes  all  stations  and  all  stages. 


THE    MYSTIC    WEAVER.  17 

Thrones  are  bobbins  in  His  shuttle; 

Armies  make  them  scud  and  scuttle. 

Woof  into  the  warp  must  flow ; 

Up  and  down  the  nations  go; 

As  the  Weaver  wills  they  go. 

Men  are  sparring, 

Powers  are  jarring, 

Upward,  downward, 

Hither,  thither, 

See  how  strange  the  nations  go, 

Just  like  puppets  in  a  show. 

Up  and  down  the  warp  is  plying, 

And  across  the  woof  is  flying, 

What  a  rattling, 

What  a  battling, 

What  a  shuffling, 

What  a  scuffling, 

As  the  Weaver  makes  His  shuttle, 

Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle. 
9*  p. 


18  POEMS.' 

V. 

Calmly  see  the  Mystic  "Weaver 

Throw  His  shuttle  to  and  fro; 
'Mid  the  noise  and  wild  confusion, 
Well  the  Weaver  seems  to  know 
What  each  motion  — 
And  commotion, 
What  each  fusion  — 
And  confusion, 
In  the  grand  result  will  show, 
As  the  nations, 
Kings  and  stations, 
Upward,  downward, 
Hither,  thither, 
As  in  mystic  dances,  go. 

In  the  present  all  is  mystery; 
In  the  Past  'tis  beauteous  History. 
O'er  the  mixing  and  the  mingling, 
How  the  signal  bells  are  jingling! 


THE    MYSTIC    WEAVER.  19 

See  you  not  the  Weaver  leaving 
Finished  work  behind  in  weaving? 
See  you  not  the  reason  subtle  — 
As  the  warp  and  woof  diminish, 
Changing  into  beauteous  finish  — 
Why  the  Weaver  makes  His  shuttle, 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle? 

VI. 

Glorious  wonder !     What  a  weaving ! 
To  the  dull  beyond  believing! 

Such  no  fabled  ages  know. 
Only  faith  can  see  the  mystery, 
How,  along  the  aisle  of  History 

Where  the  feet  of  sages  go, 
Loveliest  to  the  purest  eyes, 
Grand  the  mystic  tapet  lies ! 
Soft  and  smooth  and  even-spreading, 
As  if  made  for  angels'  treading; 
Tufted  circles  touching  ever, 
Inwrought  beauties  fading  never; 


20  POEMS. 

Every  figure  has  its  plaidings, 
Brighter  form  and  softer  shadings; 
Each  illumined  —  what  a  riddle  !  — 
From  a  Cross  that  gems  the  middle. 
Tis  a  saying  —  some  reject  it  — 
That  its  light  is  all  reflected; 
That  the  tapet's  hues  are  given 
By  a  Sun  that  shines  in  Heaven! 
'Tis  believed,  by  all  believing, 
That  great  God  Himself  is  weaving ! 
Bringing  out  the  world's  dark  mystery 
In  the  light  of  faith  and  History; 
And  as  warp  and  woof  diminish 
Comes  the  grand  and  glorious  finish  — 
"When  begin  the  golden  ages, 
Long  foretold  by  seers  and  sages. 


NEANDER'S  DYING  WORDS. 

"I   AM   WEARY  —  LET   US    GO    HOME,  MY    SISTER  —  GOOD-NIGHT. 

I  am  weary, 
I  am  weary7, 

Weary  of  the  weary  way ; 
I  am  weary  of  my  watching, 

Weary  waiting  for  the  day. 
Weary  peering  through  the  vapor, 

Looking  for  the  golden  land; 
Weary  wandering  with  my  taper, 

Up  and  down  on  life's  dark  strand; 

I  am  weary  of  my  waiting, 

Weary  of  the  weary  way. 

(21) 


22  POEMS. 

Weary  hearing  distant  music, 

Sounding  from  the  far-off*  plains ; 
I  would  have  those  choirs  come  nearer, 

I  would  join  their  blessed  strains. 
Those  harmonious  lays,  though  distant, 

And  hut  faintly,  feebly  heard, 
Only  make  earth's  discords  harsher; 

And  my  spirit,  deeply  stirred, 
Grows  more  weary, 
Weary  of  this  long  delay. 

I  am  weary, 
I  am  weary, 
Home,  my  sister,  let  us  go; 
Home,  the  rest  of  all  the  weary, 

Wherefore  do  we  tarry  so? 
All  seems  now  so  strange  around  me, 
Breaking  are  the  ties  that  bound  me; 

I  am  weary,  let  us  go. 
As  behind  a  gauzy  curtain, 


neander's  dying   words.        23 

Forms  are  passing  to  and  fro ; 
And  with  smiles  they  beckon  to  me, 

Waiting,  wishing  me  to  go. 
Xow  I  seem  to  move  toward  them ; 

Thinner  grows  the  mystic  veil ; 
Faces  brighter — music  sweeter — spirit  freer — 
Hail  the  triumph,  sister,  hail ! 
Going  homeward  — 
Come,  my  sister,  come  away. 

I  am  weary, 
0,  how  weary ! 
Weary  of  this  feeble  light ; 
And  a  glory  lures  me  onward 

To  my  rest.     Good  night !  good  night ! 
Earth  and  time  are  disappearing, 
Heaven's  eternal  joy  is  nearing; 
I  am  going  —  homeward  going, 
Sister  —  Earth  — 
Good  night !     Good  night ! 


THROUGH   DEATH    TO    LIFE. 

Have  you  heard  the  tale  of  the  Aloe  plant, 

Away  in  the  sunny  clime? 
By  humble  growth  of  an  hundred  years 

It  reaches  its  blooming  time ; 
And  then  a  wondrous  bud  at  its  crown 

Breaks  out  into  thousand  flowers : 
This  floral  queen,  in  its  blooming  seen, 

Is  the  pride  of  the  tropical  bowers. 

But  the  plant  to  the  flower  is  a  sacrifice, 

For  it  blooms  but  once,   and    in  blooming 

dies. 

(24) 


THROUGH     DEATH    TO    LITE.  25 

Have  you  further  heard  of  this  Aloe  plant 

That  grows  in  the  sunny  clime, 
How  every  one  of  its  thousand  flowers, 

As  they  drop  in  the  blooming  time, 
Is  an  infant  plant  that  fastens  its  roots 

In  the  place  where  it  falls  on  the  ground ; 
And  fast  as  they  drop  from  the  dying  stem, 

Grow  lively  and  lovely  around. 
By  dying  it  liveth  a  thousand-fold 
In  the  young  that  spring  from  the  death  of 
the  old. 

Have  you  heard  the  tale  of  the  Pelican, 

The  Arabs'  Gimel  el  Bahr? 
That  lives  in  the  African  solitudes, 

Where  the  birds  that  live  lonely  are? 
Have  you  heard  how  it  loves  its  tender  young, 

And  cares  and  toils  for  their  good? 
It  brings  them  water  from  fountains  afar, 

And  fishes  the  seas  for  their  food. 
3 


26  POEMS. 

In    famine    it   feeds    them  —  what    love    can 

devise !  — 
The  blood  of  its  bosom,  and  feeding  them  dies ! 

Have  you  heard  the  tale  they  tell  of  the  swan, 

The  snow-white  bird  of  the  lake  ? 
It  noiselessly  floats  on  the  silvery  wave, 

It  silently  sits  in  the  brake ; 
For  it  saves  its  song  till  the  end  of  life, 

And  then,  in  the  soft,  still  even, 
'Mid  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun, 

It  sings  as  it  soars  into  heaven  ! 
And  the  blessed  notes  fall  back  from  the  skies — 
'Tis  its  only  song,  for  in  singing  it  dies. 

You  have  heard  these  tales — Shall  I  tell  you  one, 

A  greater  and  better  than  all  ? 
Have  you  heard  of  Him  whom  the  heavens 
adore, 

Before  whom  the  hosts  of  them  fall  ? 


THROUGH    DEATH    TO     LIFE.  27 

How  He  left  the  choirs  and  anthems  above, 
For  earth  in  its  wailings  and  woes, 

To   suffer   the    shame   and   the   pain   of   the 
cross, 
And  die  for  the  life  of  His  foes  ? 

0  Prince  of  the  noble !  0  sufferer  divine ! 

What  sorrow  and  sacrifice  equal  to  Thine ! 


Have  you  heard  this  tale  —  the  best  of  them 
all  — 

The  tale  of  the  Holy  and  True ; 
He  dies,  but  His  life,  in  untold  souls, 

Lives  on  in  the  world  anew. 
His  seed  prevails,  and  is  filling  the  earth 

As  the  stars  fill  the  skies  above ; 
He  taught  us  to  yield  up  the  love  of  life, 

For  the  sake  of  the  life  of  love. 
His  death  is  our  life,  His  loss  is  our  gain, 
The  joy  for  the  tear,  the  peace  for  the  pain. 


28  POEMS. 

Now  hear  these  tales,  ye  weary  and  worn, 

Who  for  others  do  give  up  your  all ; 
Our  Saviour  hath  told  you  the  seed  that  would 
grow, 

Into  earth's  dark  bosom  must  fall  — 
Must  pass  from  the  view  and  die  away, 

And  then  will  the  fruit  appear : 
The  grain  that  seems  lost  in  the  earth  below, 

Will  return  many  fold  in  the  ear. 
By  death  comes  life,  by  loss  comes  gain, 
The  joy  for  the  tear,  the  peace  for  the  pain. 


HEAVENLY    RECOGNITION. 

Oft  weeping  memory  sits  alone, 

Beside  some  grave  at  even, 
And  calls  upon  the  spirit  flown : 
Oh  say!  shall  those  on  earth  our  own 

Be  ours  again  —  in  Heaven  ? 

Amid  these  lone,  sepulchral  shades, 

To  quiet  slumbers  given, 
Is  not  some  lingering  spirit  near, 
To  tell,  if  those  divided  here, 

Unite  and  know  —  in  Heaven? 
?>*  (29) 


30  POEMS. 

Shall  friends,  who  o'er  the  waste  of  life, 

By  the  same  storms  were  driven,  — 
Shall  they  recount,  in  realms  of  bliss, 
The  fortunes  and  the  tears  of  this, 
And  love  again  —  in  Heaven? 

Of  hearts  which  had  on  earth  been  one, 

By  death  asunder  riven, 
Why  does  the  one  that  has  been  reft 
Drag  off  in  grief  the  mourner  left, 

If  not  to  meet  —  in  Heaven? 

The  warmest  love  on  earth  is  still 

Imperfect  when  'tis  given; 
But  there's  a  purer  clime  above, 
Where  perfect  hearts  in  perfect  love 

Unite  ;  and  this  —  is  Heaven. 

If  love  on  earth  is  but  "  in  part," 
As  light  and  shade  at  even; 


HEAVENLY    RECOGNITION.  31 

If  sin  doth  plant  a  thorn  between 
The  truest  hearts,  there  is,  I  ween, 
A  perfect  love  —  in  Heaven. 

0  happy  world !    0  glorious  place ! 

Where  all  who  are  forgiven, 
Shall  find  their  loved  and  lost  below; 
And  hearts,  like  meeting  streams,  shall  flow 

Forever  one  —  in  Heaven. 


CONESTOGA, 


Sad  sighs  the  Autumn  wind, 

Pale  leaves  are  falling; 
Sad  scenes  to  thoughts  as  sad, 

Round  me  are  calling; 
Far  west  the  sun  descends  — 

Twilight  is  coming  — 

Deep  in  my  spirit's  ear 

Voices  are  humming ! 

Dry  leaves  around  me  blow, 
Dark  waters  murmur  low, 
Ah !  'tis  thy  solemn  flow, 
Calm  Conestoga! 

<3< 


CONESTOGA.  33 

Hither,  in  thoughtful  mood, 

Careless  I  've  wandered, 
Mind  seeking  fitted  food, 
Drawn,  as  it  pondered; 
Back  to  the  olden  days 

Memory  brings  me, 
And  many  mournful  lays 
Sadly  it  sings  me. 

Woodlands  around  me  roar, 
Wavelets  do  lave  the  shore, 
Sing  me  much — sing  me  more, 
O  Conestoga! 

Here  once  the  Indian  roved 

Wakefully,  wildly ! 
Looked  at  the  maid  he  loved 

Tenderly,  mildly ! 
Slowly,  and  one  by  one, 

Eed  men  have  vanished; 

On,  to  the  setting  sun, 

Red  men  are  banished ! 
c 


34  POEMS. 

Where  other  waters  creep, 
Where  other  willows  weep, 
There  do  thy  Indians  sleep, 
Lone  Conestoga! 

Still  roll  these  waters  on, 

Still  do  they  sing  me, 
As  roll  these  waters  on 

Thus  do  they  sing  me  : 
Life,  like  the  summer  leaves, 

Fades  once  for  ever! 
Life,  like  this  gliding  stream, 
Flows  backward  never ! 
On  to  the  silent  sea, 
On  to  Eternity! 
Thus  sing  thy  scenes  to  me, 
O  Conestoga! 


THAT    AGED    ELM. 


"Four  trees  I  pass  not  by, 
Which  o'er  our  house  thoir  evening  shadow  threw, 
Three  ash,  and  one  of  elm.    Tall  trees  they  were, 
And  old,  and  had  been  old  a  century 
Before  my  day.    None  living  could  say  aught 
About  their  youth;  but  they  were  goodly  trees; 
And  oft  I  wondered,  — as  I  sat  and  thought 
Beneath  their  summer  shade,  or,  in  the  night 
Of  winter,  heard  the  spirits  of  the  wind 
Growling  among  their  boughs,  —  how  they  had  grown 
So  high,  in  such  a  rough,  tempestuous  place; 
And  when  a  hapless  branch,  torn  by  the  blast, 
Fell  down,  I  mourned  as  if  a  friend  had  fallen." 

Bollock. 


At  the  curb-stone  in  East  King  Street,  in  the  city  of  Lan- 
caster, stood  until  lately  (1852)  a  most  venerable  Elm,  spread- 
ing t;  its  hundred  arms  to  heaven."  It  is  said  to  have  been 
more  than  a  century  old.  All  loved  it;  and  when  it  was  first 
reported  that  it  was  to  be  hacked  down,  there  was  a  general 
remonstrance  against  the  meditated  vandalism.  It  is  said 
that  even  a  formal  petition,  signed  by  many  ladies,  was  sent 
in,  praying  that  it  might  be  spared;  but  all  in  vain !  The 
axe  was  laid  to  its  root ;  and  many  a  heart  inly  bled  over  the 
lovely  ruin.  There  are  hundreds  from  whose  memory  its 
noble  image  will  never  fade.  We  cast  our  flower  upon  its 
tomb ! 

(35) 


36  POEMS. 

I. 

0  say!  where  is  that  well-known,  friendly 
Elm, 

"Which  by  the  pavement  stood  so  many  a 
year; 

Which  ruled  so  wide,  o'er  such  a  shady  realm, 

And,  stretching  forth  its  arms,  bade  all  ap- 
pear, — 

The  young  and  old, —  and  draw  more  fondly 
near. 

That  loved  and  loving  Elm !    Still  in  my  eye, 

And  in  my  heart,  like  childhood's  memories 
dear, 

The  lovely  image  of  that  tree  doth  lie: 
The  tree  is  gone,  its  friendly  image  cannot  die ! 

II. 

When  last  I  passed  it  by,  and  bowed  in 

heart  — 
As  I  am  wont  to  do,  to  what  is  old 


THAT    AGED    ELM.  37 

And  good  —  I  wist  not   of  the   dole   and 

dart 
That    would    my   soul    transfix !      Now   I 

behold 
But  mournful  space  where  its  proud  branches 

rolled. 
Ah  me  !  in  such  a  world  I,  pilgrim,  live, 
Where    loveliest    things    do    only   stay   to 

mould 
Their  pictures  on  the  heart  —  do  only  give 
What  we   do  briefly  love,  but  always  longer 

grieve. 

in. 

Where  is  that  elm  ?     Say,  did  a  whirlwind 

dire 
Roll  on  in  angry  black  toward  that  spot  ? 
And  would   the    storm's    fierce   wrath,  the 

lightning's  fire, 
Though  anguished  prayers  were  made,  yet 

Bpare  it  not  ? 
4 


38  POEMS. 

Or  did  foul  worms,  or  some  still  fouler  rot, 
In  anger  sent  from  God,  its  life  invade  ? 
Or  did  His  breath  burn  forth  in  anger  hot, 
And  has  its  glory  in  the  dust  been  laid, 
Because  those  loved  Him  not  who  loved  its 
generous  shade  ? 

IV. 

Who  razed  that  Elm  ?     'Twas  not  by  Him 
destroyed 

Who  bade  it  grow,  else  would  I  find  around 

Some  fragments  strewed,  some  bolts  by  Him 
employed 

To  hurl  its  proud  proportions  to  the  ground. 

Who  was  it?     Ah!  he  is  not  to  be  found, 

The  guilty  one:  he  stands  abashed  in  shame; 

The  graceless  deed  now  doth  him  sore  con- 
found. 

'Twas  thus  our  parents  first,  of  fallen  fame, 
Did  hide  themselves,  and  answered  not  when 
called  by  name. 


TIIAT    AGED    ELM. 


V. 

What  hast  thou  done,  0  mercenary  man  ? 
Thou  laidst  in  death  what  thou  canst  never 

wake ! 
More  than  one  hundred  years  their  cycles 

ran, 
Since  a  kind  God,  for  children's  children's 

sake, 
Began  from  a  small  sprig  that  Elm  to  make. 
He  fed  its  roots,  He  warmed  its  buds,  and 

made 
Its  branches  grow ;  and  thou  didst  madly  take 
Thine  axe,  and  stroke  on  stroke  was  laid 
Into  its  roots,  e'en  while  it  gave  thee  friendly 

shade ! 

VI. 

And  why  ?  what  had  it  done  ?     Forsooth,  it 

grew  — 
Slowly  apace,  as  moves  the  tide  of  years  — 


40  POEMS. 

It  grew  into  thy  path,  and  soon  a  few 
Small  hillocks  by  its  growing  roots  it  rears, 
A  cumb ranee  to  thy  feet ;  and  thy  wild  fears 
Its  shadow  poisonous  deemed.     0   foolish 

dread ! 
(Thus  to  the  fearful  heart  a  ghost  appears.) 
Didst  thou  forget,  it  did  that  place  o'ershade 
Ere  thou  wast  born,  and  no  man  ever  sickly 

made. 

VII. 

O  man !  didst  never  learn  the  Fifth  Com- 
mand ? 

Could  not  its  spirit  thy  rude  wrath  assuage  ? 

Did  no  reproving  voice  within  demand 

That  thou  shouldst  halt  and  venerate  its  age? 

So  old,  so  loved,  by  savage  and  by  sage. 

Think !  those  whose  heads  do  now  like  sil- 
ver shine, 

Were  boys,  when  first  in  it  the  night-wind's 


THAT    AGED    ELM.  41 

They   heard,    or    listened    to   the    cricket's 
chime 
Amid  its  thousand  leaves,  in  pleasant  summer 
time. 

VIII. 

There  sat  the  group  of  home's  sweet  inner 

love, 
On  summer  eve,  before  the  open  door; 
The  moon's  soft  light  did,  glimmering  from 

above, 
Tpon  each  friendly  face  its  radiance  pour. 
Then  told  the  sire  his  bairns  how  grandsire 

bore, 
Beneath  his  arm,  that  Elm,  a  scion  small, 
From  Conestoga's  wild  and  shelving  shore: 
How  from  that  shoot  it  grew  so  strong,  so 

tall. 
The    listening    children    smiled  —  the    story 

pleased  them  all ! 


42  POEMS 


IX. 

A  century  past !     While  generations  died 

And  other  generations  came,  it  stood 

In    strength,    in   beauty,    and    in    tow'ring 

pride, 
And    threw   its    shadows   on   the    ill    and 

good! 
The  stranger,  passing,  stopped  and  doffed 

his  hood, 
And,  with  uplifted  look,  admired  the  tree ; 
And  many  begged,  in  earnest,  solemn  mood, 
That  still  that  Elm,  they  knew  and  loved  so 

long, 
For  them  might  stand,  and  sigh  as  erst  its 

evening  song. 

x. 

Alas !    'twas  all   in  vain.     The  hard,  rude 

blow, 
Fell  from  the  hands  of  harder,  ruder  man ; 


THAT    AGED    ELM.  43 

And  in  the  dust  has  laid  that  Elm-tree  low. 
My  mournful  eyes  the  lovely  ruin  scan ! 
Mourn,  mourn,  ye  lonely  winds,  if  mourn 

you  can ! 
Mourn,  gazing  stars  !    Mourn,  moon,  whose 

mellow  light 
In  fitful  tremblings  through  its  branches  ran ! 
Mourn,  vacant  street !     Mourn,  ye  who  pass 

in  sight, 
The  Elm-tree  soughs  not  with  the  sighing  wind 


to-night ! 


XI. 


The  Poet  mourns  !  but  finds  it  hard  to  tell 
"Which  most  to  mourn  —  the  heart  that  did 

the  deed, 
Or  the  good  tree  which  by  its  hardness  fell ! 
A  crowd  of  thoughts  do  through  my  bosom 

speed, 
Which  onward  draw  me,  and  still  onward 

lead ; 


44  POEMS. 

I  think,  how  life  is  but  a  transient  day ; 

The  things  that  live  the  hungry  tomb  do 
feed : 

Destruction  rules  the  earth  with  mournful 
sway, 
And  trees,  and  men,  and  all  things  earthly- 
fade  away! 


ROSES!    ROSES! 

Time  of  Roses ! 
Many  Roses. 
See  along  the  garden  palings: 
See  along  the  white  porch-railings : 
See,  the  cottage  pathway  closes 
On  each  side  with  rows  of  Roses  — 
Oh  !  how  many  Roses  ! 

Roses,  Roses ! 

Friendly  Roses. 

See  how,  smiling  as  one  passes, 

They  look  out  through  dewy  glasses; 

Bowing,  too,  with  fragrant  greeting, 

As  if  glad  at  such  a  meeting  — 

Friendly  are  these  Roses. 

(45) 


46  POEMS. 

Eoses,  Eoses ! 

Modest  Eoses. 
To  the  earth  their  faces  holding; 
To  their  heart  their  beauties  folding; 
Blood  into  their  petals  rushing, 
Like  a  maiden's  cheek  when  blushing- 
Timid  —  modest  Eoses. 

Eoses,  Eoses ! 

Fragrant  Eoses. 
Fragrant  in  the  evening  twilight: 
Fragrant  in  the  morning  sunlight: 
Fragrant  at  the  cottage  gate, 
As  in  parks  of  royal  state  — 
Oh !  the  fragrant  Eoses. 

Eoses,  Eoses ! 

Eed,  red  Eoses. 
Like  the  health,  which  sits  adorning 
Youthful  cheeks  in  life's  gay  morning 


47 


So  the  ruddy  life  reposes 

On  these  youth-like,  love-like  roses  — 


Hail  ye  red,  red  Eoses. 


Roses,  Eoses ! 

White,  white  Eoses. 
Vestal  petals,  so  untainted, 
Like  the  robes  of  mortals  sainted, 
Sweetly  imaging  the  brightness, 
Of  the  blest  who  walk  in  whiteness  — 
White  are  Eden's  Eoses. 

Eoses,  Eoses ! 

Pale,  pale  Eoses. 
At  the  heart  a  worm  is  gnawing, 
Life  from  out  the  petals  drawing ; 
Oh !  my  heart,  so  lately  leaping 
High  with  joy,  now  bursts  in  weeping 
O'er  these  pale,  pale  Eoses ! 


48  POEMS. 

Roses,  Eoses ! 

Fading  Eoses. 
Eound  the  bush  white  leaves  are  lying, 
Like  our  earthly  hopes  in  dying. 
June  is  gone,  and  with  it  closes 
This  sweet,  blooming  reign  of  Eoses  — 
Sad !  these  fading  Eoses ! 

Eoses,  Eoses ! 

Farewell,  Eoses. 
Farewell,  blessed  things  of  beauty, 
I'll  return  anew  to  duty: 
Till  my  life  with  Him  reposes  — 
In  His  life  who  Sharon's  Eose  is ! 
Farewell,  lovely  Eoses ! 


HERE    AEE    THE    DEAD! 


"WRITTEN    IN    A    GRAY 


Here  are  the  dead  — 

The  silent  dead ! 
They  heed  not,  and  they  hear  not, 

Our  passing  tread. 
How  calm,  with  up-turned  faces, 
Low  in  their  resting-places, 
The  pale,  pale  slumberers  lie. 

Here  are  the  dead  — 
The  recent  dead ! 
The  grass  is  not  yet  growing 
Above  their  head. 
5  d  ( 49 ) 


POEMS. 


So  lately  loved  and  living, 
So  mournfully  now  giving 
To  dust  their  active  limbs. 


Here  are  the  dead  — 

The  early  dead ! 
Like  petals  from  a  spring-flower, 

So  early  shed. 
So  early  —  ere  the  sorrow, 
That  waited  for  to-morrow, 

Could  come  and  make  them  weep. 

Here  are  the  dead  — 

The  aged  dead ! 
How  many,  many  anxious  years 

Pass'd  o'er  their  head. 
"With  hoary  locks,  and  bending, 
This  way  their  journey  wending, 
They've  reached,  at  last,  the  end. 


HERE    ARE    THE    DEAD!  51 

Here  are  the  dead  — 

Our  kindred  dead ! 
Through  long,  long  generations, 

Laid  in  this  bed. 
Dust  still  with  dust  in  union, 
A  silent,  deep  communion, 
As  side  by  side  they  lie. 

Here  are  the  dead  — 

The  sainted  dead ! 
Their  spirits  are  at  home  in  bliss  — 

And  comforted. 
There  bodies,  here  awaiting 
A  glorious  renovating, 

Shall  rise,  as  Christ  the  Head. 


TO    EMMIE. 

Say,  Emmie,  did  you  ever  watch  the  morning, 

calm  and  bright, 
That  kindled  up  the  orient  sky  with  golden 

gleams  of  light; 
And  did  you  see  the  waking  earth  throw  its 

glad  hands  on  high, 
"While  life  and  music  shouted  forth  from  earth 

and  sea  and  sky  ? 
O  Emmie  !  'tis  a  festal  sight  —  but  not  so  glad 

with  love, 

As  when  the  eternal  morning  dawns  on  sainted 

souls  above. 

(52) 


TO    EMMIE.  53 

Didst  ever  note  how  bright  it  is,  when  mid-clay 

summer's  light 
Makes  shadow  to  its  substance  creep,  and  all 

on  earth  is  bright ;  — 
Almost   too   bright  —  the  feeble  eye   shrinks 

'neath  the  blessed  darts: 
E'en  flowers  veil  their  beauties  o'er,  and  fold 

them  to  their  hearts. 
But,  Emmie,   think,   oh  !  what  must  be  yon 

bright  and  heavenly  place, 
Amid  whose  light  the   seraph  strong  bends 

down  and  veils  his  face. 


And,  Emmie,  did  you  ever  read  a  summer 
evening  sky? 

How  calm  'mid  day's  departing  beams  a  thou- 
sand beauties  lie  ! 

Bright  clouds  repose  in  seas  of  light,  like 
hearts  unstain'd  by  sin, 


54  POEMS. 

And   softly  through   eve's   golden  gates  the 

light  is  gathered  in ; 
O  Emmie !   so,  in  life's  sweet  eve,  our  souls 

shall  sink  to  rest, 
And  pass  into  yon   blissful  heaven,  to  live 

among  the  blest. 


THE    CROSS. 

Do  you  look  for  rest? 

Look  to  the  cross: 
Is  your  soul  uublest  ? 

Ask  for  the  cross : 
Look  —  love  —  live 
At  the  cross. 

Do  you  ever  bow  ? 

Bow  at  the  cross : 
Do  you  ever  vow? 

Yow  at  the  cross: 
Preach  —  pray  —  praise 
At  the  cross. 


(55) 


56  POEMS. 

Do  you  ever  mourn  ? 

Mourn  at  the  cross: 
Do  you  feel  forlorn  ? 

Fly  to  the  cross: 
Sigh  —  seek  —  smile 
At  the  cross. 

Do  you  seek  a  home? 

Seek  at  the  cross : 
Vainly  you  roam, 

Far  from  the  cross : 
Hope  —  Home  —  Heaven  ! 
Are  all  at  the  cross. 


BIRDS. 

Oh,  the  Birds! 

Many  Birds. 
Flocks  high  in  the  air  are  flying, 
To  the  south  in  Autumn  hieing, 
Thousands  in  the  groves  are  sitting, 
Thousands  o'er  the  fields  are  flitting. 
On  the  bushes  one  commences, 
Thousands  answer  from  the  fences. 
Small  ones  on  the  tree-tops  talking, 
Tall  ones  in  the  water  walking, 
Many  sizes,  many  races, 
Loving  all  their  several  places, 

Oh,  the  Birds! 

Uow  many  Birds ! 

( 57  ) 


58  POEMS. 

Oh,  the  Birds ! 

Pretty  Birds. 
How  their  necks  are  curved  so  nicely! 
How  their  bills  are  carved  precisely! 
How  their  little  eyeballs  glisten, 
When  they  turn  their  heads  to  listen  ! 
And  their  many-colored  feathers, 
Each  one  on  the  other  gathers, 
With  such  slopings  and  such  gradings, 
Brighter  lines  and  softer  shadings ; 
Take  it  all,  their  forms  and  features, 
Are  they  not  most  pleasing  creatures? 

Yes,  the  Birds, 

Pretty  Birds ! 

Oh,  the  Birds ! 

Friendly  Birds. 
They  disdain  the  desert  places, 
Where  they  see  no  human  faces; 
But  they  love  the  homestead  hedges, 
And  the  woodland's  outer  edges, 


BIRDS.  59 

And  the  mullens,  and  the  thistles, 
Where  the  ploughman  plods  and  whistles ; 
And  the  orchard,  as  'tis  nearer 
To  the  house,  to  them  is  dearer; 
For  they  dread  all  lonely  places, 
Where  they  see  no  friendly  faces  — 

Yes,  the  Birds, 

The  friendly  Birds. 


Oh,  the  Birds! 

Singing  Birds. 
Singing  in  the  morning  sunlight, 
Singing  in  the  evening  twilight, 
On  tall  weeds,  in  meadows,  swinging, 
In  the  summer  sun,  and  singing  — 
Singing  sweetly,  singing  gladly, 
Singing  solemn,  almost  sadly; 
Singing  solo,  singing  chorus, 
Singing  softly,  and  sonorous. 


60  POEMS. 

Earth  is  vocal,  heaven  is  ringing, 
With  the  joyous,  ceaseless  singing 
Of  the  Birds, 
The  singing  Birds. 

Oh,  the  Birds! 

Sacred  Birds. 
On  the  Bible's  holy  pages, 
How  each  Bird  our  heart  engages ! 
Every  instinct  has  its  teachings, 
Every  habit  has  its  preachings; 
Every  plume  reflects  some  glory, 
Every  song-note  tells  some  story. 
Oft  our  heart,  in  praising,  praying, 
Goes,  in  faith  and  fancy  straying, 
Where  the  Jewish  shepherds  wandered. 
Where  the  holy  prophets  pondered, 
Listening  to  the  soft  cantation, 
And  the  joyous  jubilation, 

Of  the  Birds, 

The  sacred  Birds. 


THE    RUINS    OF    NINEVEH. 

Nineveh  is  laid  waste:  who  will  bemoan  her?  — Bible. 
I. 

Here,  where  these  weeping  willows  humbly 

bend 
Their  heavy  waving  branches  to  the  ground : 
Where  Tigris'  waters,  softly  gliding,  send 
Their  drowsy  murmurs  on  the  air  around, 
I  sit,  and  listen  to  the  solemn  sound 
Which  Fancy  brings   across   the  waste   of 

years ! 
Before  me  rises  many  a  doleful  mound, 
Inspiring  sadness  and  mysterious  fears, 
And  to  my  present  view  the  long  gone  past 


appears ! 


(61) 


G: 


POEMS. 


II. 

Tis  Elneveh  !  —  the   city  vast  that  sinned 
and  wept 

And   sinned    again,    until   God's  patience, 
waiting  long, 

Came  to  an  end ;  and  the  death-angel  swept 

His  mighty  sickle  through  the  guilty  throng ! 

Then  ceased  the  midnight  revel,  dance,  and 
song; 

Grim  ruin  squatted,  toad-like,  on  the  splen- 
dor there; 

Yile  serpents  crept  the  cursed  wastes  among; 

Rank  weeds  grew  out  the  doors  and  win- 
dows where 
The  feet  of  Friendship  crossed — where  smiled 
the  happy  fair. 

in. 
I  silent  sit,  and  gaze  around  in  solemn  awe, 
While   o'er  my  spirit   comes  the  voice   of 
years  gone  by ; 


THE    RUINS    OF    NINEVEH.  63 

And  see  fulfilled  what  ancient  seers  foresaw, 
Still  hear  their  voices  'mid  the  ruins  sigh ! 
"lis  evening !  —  Clouds  of  bats  from  out  the 

arches  fly; 
The  hooting   owl  —  the  bird  of  death  and 

dread  — 
Makes  echo  answer  to  his  boding  cry; 
The  cormorant  returns,  with  reptiles  fed, 
And  hollow-boomiDg  bitterns  thunder  dirges 

for  the  dead! 

IV. 

Where  once  through  curtained  window,  and 

through  latticed  gate, 
Bright,  laughing  eyes  looked  out,  and  ogled 

to  the  crowd  — 
There  on  the  lintels,  each  one  with  his  mate, 
The  doleful  creatures  sit  and  cry  aloud. 
Through  empty  halls,  where  whilom  dwelt 

the  proud, 


64  POEMS. 

The  satyrs  dance  beneath  the  moonlit  sky ; 
And  thorns  and  brambles  now  are  glory's 

shroud ! 
The  raven's  croak,  the  screech-owl's  wailing 

cry 
Is  heard  where  ill-concealed  the  slimy  hissing 

dragons  lie ! 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW. 

Now  the  leaves  of  summer 
Are  lying  dry  and  drear; 

O'er  the  earth's  cold  surface 
The  wailing  winds  do  veer: 

Fare-thee-well  for  ever, 
Sighs  the  passing  year. 

Look  upon  the  dial ; 

See  you  not  the  sign? 
Lo,  the  gnomen's  shadow 

Falls  upon  the  line ! 
Backward  lies  the  darkness, 

Forward  gleams  the  shine. 
6  *  B  ( 65 ) 


66  POEMS. 

Onward  bravely  travel, 
Star  of  hope  before : 

Shadows  fall  behind  you  — 
Gloom  your  path  no  more ; 

And  the  coming  glory 
Brightens  evermore. 

What  the  Old  Year  buried, 
That  the  New  will  bring; 

Through  the  misty  winter 
Peers  the  cheerful  spring  — 

In  the  mourning  woodlands 
Joyous  birds  will  sing. 

Life  moves  bravely  onward, 
Death  must  drop  away : 

Where  the  wrecks  lie  scattered 
Who  would  wish  to  stay  ? 

Earth  is  night  and  shadow, 
Heaven  is  joy  and  day. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  AUTUMN  WIND. 


'Tis  evening:  the  hum  of  the  village  is  still, 
The  bairns  are  abed,  and  we  have  our  will ; 
So,  wife,  draw  your  chair  to  the  first  fall  fire  — 
I'll  stir  it  a  little  and  make  it  burn  higher  — 
Then   give   me  your  ear,  and   give   me  your 

mind, 
While  I  sing  you   the   song  of  the  Autumn 

wind. 

I  heard  it  to-day  in  the  deep  brown  wood, 
As  I  thoughtfully  walked  or  pensively  stood ; 
It  played  with  the  twigs  of  the  trees  above, 
It  mourned,  in  the  pines  like  a  sigh  of  love, 

(G7) 


68  POEMS. 

It  lifted  the  leaves  that  had  fallen  before, 
And  bore  them  away  with  a  rush  and  a  roar. 

I  saw  by  the  tree-tops  that  bowed  in  its  way, 
How  it  played   o'er  the   forest   and   hurried 

away ; 
The  broad  mountain's  side,  stretching  down 

to  the  plain, 
Was  rolling  in  waves  like  a  field  of  ripe  graiu  ; 
And  the  dark  blue  clouds  moved  swiftly  and 

high, 
O'er  the  distant  heights,  through  a  troubled  sky. 

In  the  orchard  near,  half  bare  of  its  leaves, 
Do  you  hear  the  song  as  it  moans  and  grieves  ? 
In  the  rustling  vines  o'er  the  garden  way, 
It  mimics  the  rain  on  a  showery  day ; 
And  the  willow  lone  by  the  fountain  sighs, 
Like  friends  at  the  grave  where  a  loved  one  lies. 

O  wife  !  do  you  hear  how  the  windows  drum 
In  the  rooms  above  ?  — what  a  wintry  hum ! 


THE    AUTUMN     WIND.  69 

At  the  eaves  of  the  roof,  and  the  sills  of  the 

doors, 
The  fall  wind  veers,  and  pries,  and  roars ; 
And  the  chimney  utters  a  weary  moan, 
Like  a  spirit's  grief  that  is  lost  and  lone. 

A  mystical  feeling  rolls  over  my  mind, 
That  echoes  the  song  of  the  Autumn  wind ; 
The  world  without,  as  it  fades  awTay, 
Doth  shadow,  0  wife,  our  life's  brief  day ; 
And  the  peace  within,  with  its  light  and  love, 
Foretells  of  a  stormless  Home  above. 


NEW  YEAR'S    EVE. 

A    NIGHT    VISION. 

I. 

'Twas  late  on  New  Year's  solemn  eve, 

The  stars  above  were  bright, 
And  every  living,  weary  thing 

Had  nestled  for  the  night: 
The  hearth's  low  fire  threw  on  the  wall 

A  faint  and  fitful  gleam, 
When  o'er  my  thoughtful  spirit  came 

A  vision  aud  a  dream; 

And  mystic  forms  came  gliding  by 

Like  wrecks  upon  a  stream. 

(70) 


NEW     YEAR'S     EVE.  71 

II. 

I  saw  an  aged,  silent  man, 

His  locks  were  white  as  snow, 
His  wintry  robes  were  fringed  around 

AYith  yellow  leaves  below; 
And  on  him  hung  dry,  withered  wreaths, 

Borne  off  from  Summer's  bowers, 
And   round  him  breathed   some  fragrance 
still 

Of  Autumn's  fruits  and  flowers. 
He  sat  as  if  to  con  and  count 

The  solemn  passing  hours. 

in. 
His  head — how  strange! — with  double  face, 

Looked  backward  and  before ; 
Like  Janus,  worshipped  and  adored 

At  Rome  in  days  of  yore. 
The  hinder  face  was  dark  with  woe, 

Like  one  who  thinks  of  sin : 


72  POEMS. 

The  other,  bright  as  rainbow  hues 

That  span  the  misty  lin, 
Seemed  gazing  at  an  open  heaven 

With  hope  of  getting  in. 

IV. 

I  knew  it  was  Old  Father  Time  — 

For  in  one  face  I  read 
A  sorrow  and  a  penitence 

O'er  days  forever  fled; 
And  in  the  other,  free  from  care. 

From  furrowed  woe  or  tear, 
I  saw  a  light  of  hope  that  gave 

The  countenance  a  cheer, 
And  gleamed  the  brightness  of  its  joy 

Adown  the  opening  year. 

v. 

Still  feebler  burned  the  hearth's  low  fire, 
And  fainter  on  the  wall 


H  I  w   year's   eve.  73 

I  saw  the  ghostly  light  and  shade 

In  mimic  pictures  fall ; 
And  in  my  spirit  deeply  wrought 

A  mystic  wisdom  stirred, 
As  when  strange  power  in  Autumn  time 

Calls  off  the  restless  bird ; 
And  what  Old  Time  in  musings  thought 

My  ear  in  voices  heard: 

VI. 

Where  are  the  rains  and  the  snows, 
Where  are  the  joys  and  the  woes 

Of  the  year? 
"Where  are  the  rainbows  and  showers, 
Where  are  the  dews  and  the  flowers, 
Where  are  the  moments  and  hours, 
That  were  here  ? 
Gone  like  the  songs  which  the  summer  birds  sing, 
Gone  like  the  meanings  the  Autumn  woods 
bring, 
7 


74  POEMS. 

Gone  like  the  guests  when  the  banquet  is  o'er, 
And  the  last  fading  foot-fall  sounds  back  from 

the  door, 
And  the  joy  that  is  past  will  return    never- 
more— 

Will  return  nevermore ! 


VII. 

Where  are  the  thrills  and  the  throes, 
Where  are  the  friends  and  the  foes 

Of  the  year  ? 
Where  are  the  weepings  and  wailings, 
Where  the  assaults  and  assailiugs, 
Where  are  the  praises  and  railings, 
Where  are  the  faults  and  the  failings, 
That  were  here? 
Gone  like  the  green  leaves  that  freshened  the 

wild-wood, 
Gone  like  the  sweet  songs  that  gladdened  our 
childhood, 


NEW     YEAR'S     EVE.  75 

Gone    like    the    bubble   that  breaks    on  the 

stream, 
Gone  like  those  pictures  which  are  not,  but 

seem  — 

When  they  glide  in  our  fancies  at  night  in  a 

dream  — 

And  return  nevermore ! 


VIII. 

As  when  one  waketh  from  a  dream, 

Boused  by  the  joyous  morn, 
I  started  from  my  mystic  mood, 

For  other  thoughts  were  born. 
I  stirred  the  embers  on  the  hearth, 

I  fed  the  fire  anew'; 
More  cheerful  pictures  than  before 

Upon  the  wall  it  threw, 
And  brighter  in  my  musing  heart 

The  rising  visions  grew. 


76  POEMS. 

IX. 

Old  Father  Time  himself  was  cheered, 

And  by  the  hearth's  warm  glow 
His  cheerful  face  was  turned  to  me  — 

Away  the  face  of  woe ; 
The  Clock  struck  Twelve  !  and  every  stroke 

Was  like  the  tap  of  drum, 
That  calls  the  waiting  soldier  when 

The  hour  of  march  has  come, 
And  sweetly  in  my  spirit's  cells 

I  heard  its  cheering  hum. 


The  New  Year  opened !  —  Father  Time 

Resumed  his  earnest  way; 
Forward  shone  the  light  of  hope, 

And  back  the  shadows  lay! 
He  bade  me  follow:  up  I  rose. 

And  bent  my  soul  to  win  — 


NEW     YEAR'S     EVE.  77 

"Beware!  beware!"  said  Father  Time, 

"Beware,  beware  of  sin! 
Keep  iu  your  eye  yon  open  Heaven  — 

There's  hope  of  getting  in!" 

XI. 

Kyrie  eleison  !  —  humbly  I  pray  — 
Kyrie  eleison  !  —  shine  on  my  way  ! 
Shine  on  my  spirit,  and  shine  on  my  path: 
Save  me  from  evil,  and  save  me  from  wrath. 
If  not  from  sorrow,  from  sin  make  me  free  — 
Kyrie  eleison!  —  bring  me  to  Thee! 


THE  MAECH  OF  EMPIEE. 

WRITTEN  UNDER  A  TREE  IN  THE  PAR  WEST. 

In  the  deep  and  awful  forest 

Of  the  wide  primeval  "West  — 
On  the  rich  and  lonely  prairies 

That  upon  its  bosom  rest  — 
Along  the  mighty  rivers, 

And  along  the  smaller  streams, 
I  wandered,  seeing  visions, 

Like  one  who  strangely  dreams. 

The  herds  upon  the  prairies, 
The  wild  beasts  in  the  wood, 

When  moving,  moved  but  westward, 
Looked  westward  when  they  stood. 

(78) 


TIIE    MARCH    OF     EMPIRE.  79 

A  sense  of  awe  possessed  them, 

A  deep  and  dreamy  dread, 
As  timidly  they  lingered. 

Or  fearfully  they  fled. 

Around  me  were  the  Red  men, 

But  restless  in  their  stay; 
A  deep  mysterious  instinct 

Was  urging  them  away; 
And  as  the  birds  of  passage 

In  the  silent  autumn  time. 
Their  hearts  were  deeply  longing 

For  a  more  congenial  clime. 

In  the  distance,  far,  far  Eastward, 
And  at  first  but  faintly  heard, 

There  seemed  mysterious  roarings, 
A3  of  thousand  forests  stirred  — 

A  noise  like  mighty  armies 
In  warfare  or  in  glee, 


80  POEMS. 

And  then  a  deep  dread  sounding 
Like  the  rolling  of  the  sea. 

Still  nearer,  and  still  louder, 

I  heard  the  mystic  tread; 
Still  faster,  and  more  fearful. 

The  solemn  Eed  men  fled. 
Around  me  fell  the  forests 

As  mowers  fell  the  grass, 
The  mountains  bowed,  the  valleys  rose 

To  let  the  armies  pass. 

Encampments  grow  to  cities, 

And  tents  spread  far  and  wide; 
And  proud  upon  the  rivers 

Their  ships  of  thunder  ride ; 
Their  shouts  of  joy  and  triumph, 

O'er  prairie  and  o'er  plain, 
Sound  in  the  primal  forests, 

And  echo  back  again. 


THE    MARCH    OF    EMPIRE.  81 

It  is  the  march  of  empire  — 

The  tramp  and  tread  of  States  — 
The  moving  of  the  millions 

With  fiat  that  creates. 
Where  loneliness  for  ages  reigned, 

Now  myriad  homes  repose, 
The  wilderness  is  glad  for  them, 

And  blossoms  as  the  rose. 


THE  SILL  BENEATH  THE  DOOR, 

There  is  a  strange,  a  mystic  spell, 

Of  memory  and  love, 
That  chains  my  heart  to  early  days, 

"Where'er  I  rest  or  rove. 
I  see  again  the  old  home  house, 

I  walk  across  each  floor; 
I  go  the  passage  through,  and  stand, 
With  farewell  words  and  staff  in  hand, 
Upon  the  sill 

That  lies  beneath  the  door. 

(82) 


THE    SILL    BENEATH    THE    DOOR.        83 

Each  spot  around  that  dear  old  home 

Its  well-kept  treasure  gives: 
In  every  tree,  and  wall,  and  chair, 

Some  cherished  memory  lives. 
But  nowhere  beats  my  heart  so  high, 

And  nowhere  feel  I  more, 
Than  here,  when  musingly  I  stand, 
"With  farewell  words  and  staff  in  hand, 
Upon  this  sill 

That  lies  beneath  the  door. 

What  silent  years  have  fled  since  I 

Looked  out  from  clear  old  home, 
With  hopeful  heart,  through  moist'ning  eye, 

For  better  days  to  come ! 
'Twas  here  I  turned  to  those  I  left, 

With  longing  heart  once  more  — 
Here  lingered  still,  where  now  I  stand 
With  farewell  words  and  staff  in  hand, 
Upon  the  sill 

That  lies  beneath  the  door. 


84  POEMS. 

I've  passed  o'er  other  thresholds  since, 

To  grander  halls  —  but  still 
I  never  entered  home  like  this, 

Across  another  sill. 
Parents  and  home  we  have  but  once, 

When  gone  they  come  no  more ! 
Oh  !  what  a  moment  when  we  stand, 
With  farewell  words  and  staff  in  hand. 
Upon  the  sill 

That  lies  beneath  the  door. 


GETHSEMENE. 

i. 

"When  heart  is  weary, 
When  eyes  are  teary, 
Or  life's  way  dreary, 
I  seek  the  shades  of 

Gethsemene. 
And  thither  straying, 
Believing,  praying, 
I  hear  Christ  saying, 

"  Oh  !  trust  in  me." 

Then  with  confession, 

And  intercession, 
8  (85 


i 


POEMS. 

And  new  profession, 
Hopeful  I  press  on, 

0  Christ,  to  Thee! 
And  feel  Thy  love  more 
Sweetly  than  e'er  before 
Stealing  my  heart  o'er, 
In  the  lone  shades  of 
.  Gethsemene. 


ii. 

To  the  romantic  eye, 
Under  the  wide,  wide  sky, 
In  many  climes  lie 
More  charming  scenes  than 

Gethsemene  — 
Gardens  with  cool  bowers, 
Fountains  and  bright  flowers, 
Where  pass  the  glad  hours 

In  idle  glee; 


GETHSEMENE.  87 

Here  let  the  gay  walk, 
Here  let  the  proud  stalk, 
And  all  earth's  sins  mock  — 

Mock,  but  not  flee. 
O'er  sin  to  sorrow, 
New  strength  to  borrow 
For  each  to-morrow, 
No  spot  is  like  to 

Gethsemene. 


in. 

Queen  of  the  Holy  Land ! 
Within  thy  temple  grand 
Priests  of  the  Crescent  stand ! 
Waste  lies  the  glory, 

0  Zion  !  of  thee. 
Hark!  as  the  evening  falls, 
Muzzien  on  Omar's  walls, 
Loud  to  the  Moslem  calls  — 

"Bend,  bend  the  knee." 


POEMS. 

Ah  me !  he  calls  in  vain ; 
I  fly  the  voice  profane, 
I  seek  a  better  fane, 
Where  thou,  O  Saviour! 

Didst  pray  for  me ! 
I  find  the  best  repose, 
In  the  soft  evening's  close, 
Where  the  bright  Kedron  flows, 
Praying  with  Christ  in 

Gethsemene. 

IV. 

Yonder  the  Jews  creep 
Down  by  the  walls  steep, 
And  at  the  stones  weep, 
Wailing  by  leave  of 

The  Musselman. 
Are  your  eyes  teary? 
Is  your  heart  weary? 
Your  land  is  dreary: 
Ye  chose  a  robber  — 

And  he  has  come ! 


GETHSEMENE.  89 

Christ,  ye  betrayed  Him! 
Hence  ye  conveyed  Him, 
Shamefully  slayed  Him 

On  Calvary! 
Now  save  that  vain  tear; 
Weep  not  to  stones  there; 
Weep  o'er  your  sins  here, 
Bowing  to  Christ  in 

Gethsemene. 


Charmed,  on  this  sacred  ground, 
As  dies  each  worldly  sound 
In  the  deep  peace  around, 
Sweeter  than  rest  is 

This  spot  to  me. 
At  thy  foot,  Olivet, 
Fondly  I  linger  yet: 
Think  of  Hi3  bloody  sweat 

And  agony ! 


90  POEMS. 

Whilst  with  confession, 
And  intercession, 
And  new  profession, 
Hopeful  I  press  on, 

O  Christ,  to  Thee! 
Jesus !   Thy  love  more 
Sweetly  than  e'er  before, 
Steals  all  my  heart  o'er 
In  the  sweet  shades  of 

Gethsemene. 


THE    RAIN. 


Rain,  Rain,  Rain ! 
Pattering  on  the  roof,  and  running  down  the 

pane, 
Roaring  in  the  spouting,  filling  up  the  drain, 
Coming  with  a  blessing,  and  going  off  again. 
"What  a  rich  profusion, 
What  a  strange  confusion. 
The  falling  of  the  rain ! 
(01) 


92  POEMS. 

Rain,  Eain,  Rain ! 
When  the  shower  is  heavy  it  flattens  down  the 

grain, 
Tears  the  mellow  highway,  and  deluges  the 

plain ; 
Fences,  bridges,  houses,  it  hurries  to  the  main ; 
What  an  untold  power 
In  the  clouds  that  lower, 

To  empty  down  the  rain. 

Rain,  Rain,  Rain ! 
Oh !   how  very  cheering  when   the  earth  in 

drought  has  lain ; 
When  the  farmer,  having  scanned  his  parched 

fields  with  pain, 
Is  looking  to  the  burning  sky,  but  looking  all 
in  vain : 

Then  with  grateful  wonder 
He  hears  the  distant  thunder, 
And  hails  the  coming  rain ! 


THE     RAIN.  93 

Rain,  Rain,  Rain ! 
Welcome  to   my   roof   and  welcome  to  my 

pane; 
Come,  ye  gentle  showers,  with  freshness  to  the 

plain, 
And  lay  your  vernal  kisses  upon  the  waiting 
grain. 

What  a  kindly  feeling 
O'er  my  heart  comes  stealing, 
With  the  falling  of  the  rain ! 


LAURA    AMANDA'S    GEAVE. 

WRITTEN   AT   HER   GRAVE   IN   LEWISBURG   CEMETERY,  NOV.  12,  1857. 

Ten  years  since  thou  art  gone  — 

Ten  years  it  is  to-day; 
Ten  years  thine  infant  form  hath  slept 

In  this  lone  bed  of  clay. 

We  call  it  death,  on  earth, 
They  call  it  birth,  on  high; 

Ten  years  since  thou  art  truly  born 
Where  thou  shalt  never  die. 

(94) 


LAURA     AMANDA    S     GRAVE.  95 

Ten  years  since  thou  art  gone  — 

But  they  say  come,  above ; 
Ten  years  among  the  infant  choir, 

At  home  in  joy  and  love. 

We  gave  thee  up  with  tears  — 
They  smiled  thee  welcome  home; 

"We  mourned  for  thee  so  early  left, 
They  hailed  thee  early  come. 

Ten  years  where  angels  are, 
In  that  bright  world  of  bliss ; 

Would  it  be  love  that  e'er  should  dare 
To  wish  thee  back  to  this? 

I  came  not  sadly  here, 

I  go  not  sad  away: 
I  did  but  long  to  see  thy  grave, 

Just  ten  years  old  to-day  ! 


THE    SOUL'S    ASPIRATIONS. 

O  what  an  awful  mystery! 
O  what  a  deep,  deep  history, 

Hidden  within  us  lies ! 
The  spirit  hath  its  unseen  world, 
And  round  it  other  spheres  are  whirl'd, 

In  its  own  mystic  skies. 

What  restless  aspirations  — 
What  sense  of  limitations, 

Live  in  it  side  by  side ! 
What  littleness  that  binds  it  — 
What  greatness,  too,  that  blinds  it! 

How  narrow,  and  how  wide! 

(96) 


THE    soul's    aspirations.         97 

What  silent  revolutions 
Roll  in  its  convolutions, 

With  many  a  grate  and  jar ! 
Yet  evermore  what  soundings 
Come,  like  victorious  boundings, 

To  hail  it  from  afar. 

Around  its  quiet  fountains 

Rise  dark  and  towering  mountains, 

Lost  in  the  clouds  they  kiss; 
Yet  e'er  adown  them  courses, 
From  still  remoter  sources, 

Its  greater  life  and  bliss. 

How  restless,  ever  heaving, 
Aspiring  and  believing, 

Beyond  its  noblest  flight ! 
High  instincts,  ever  reaching, 
Lay  hold  of  higher  teaching, 

And  struggle  to  the  light. 
9  G 


98  POEMS. 

0  joy !  to  it  'tis  given, 

To  know  its  home  in  Heaven, 

"Where  all  that  longs  is  blest! 
Led  by  these  aspirations, 
It  breaks  its  limitations, 

And  find  its  final  rest. 


DEATH    IjST    A    BALL-KOOM. 


"  This  morning,  about  1  o'clock,  a  sad  affair  took  place  at 
a  ball  given  by  the  De  Soto  Assembly,  at  the  Saranak  Hall,  at 
the  north-east  corner  of  Eighth  and  Callowhill  Streets.  While 
the  ball  was  in  progress,  a  young  woman  named  Adeline  Yeager, 
who  was  engaged  in  dancing,  suddenly  fell  upon  her  face  on 
the  floor.  Her  companions  hastened  to  raise  her  up,  when  it 
was  found  that  she  was  dead.  The  melancholy  occurrence 
caused  a  deep  impression  among  the  persons  who  were  present 
at  the  party.  The  body  of  the  deceased,  attired  in  her  ball- 
vas  removed  to  the  Fourteenth  "Ward  Station-house,  and 
from  there  was  carried  to  her  late  residence,  No.  1224  North 
Sixteenth  Street,  above  Girard  Avenue.  The  deceased  was 
thirty-five  years  of  age.  Her  sudden  death  is  attributed  to 
disease  of  the  heart."  —  Philadelphia  paper. 

(99) 


100  POEMS. 


'Mid  brilliant  light 

Of  chandeliers, 
A  damsel  bright, 
On  a  festive  night, 
With  keen  delight 

In  the  dance  appears. 

n. 

Her  laugh  is  loud, 
Her  eye  is  proud; 
Her  heart  is  gay 
As  a  bird  in  May; 
"While  light  and  fleet, 
On  her  tripping  feet, 
She  whirls  around 
To  the  viol's  sound, 
With  the  gladdest  bound 
In  that  giddy  crowd. 


DEATH    IN    A    BALL-ROOM.  101 


III. 

But  see !  she  reels 

With  a  strange  advance ! 
And  each  one  feels 
That  her  step  reveals 
A  move  so  wrong, 
That  it  cannot  "belong 

To  the  merry  dance ! 
As  the  lightning  flash, 
Preceding  the  crash 

That  levels  the  oak  — 
Death's  sudden  dart 
Struck  to  her  heart; 

And  she  never  spoke ! 

IV. 


How  glad  and  gay 
On  that  festal  day, 


9 


102  POEMS 


They  saw  her  leave, 
In  the  early  eve, 

Her  cheerful  home. 
But  sad  and  strange 
Is  the  sudden  change! 
Through  the  dismal  night 
By  the  street-lamp  light, 

With  her  corpse  they  come! 
From  the  dancing  crowd, 
Where  the  mirth  rang  loud, 
They  bear  her  —  yes, 
In  her  ball-room  dress, 

That  is  now  her  shroud! 


Disease  of  the  heart 
Has  caused  her  death; 

Disease  of  the  heart 
Has  taken  her  breath. 


DEATH    IN    A    BALL-ROOM.  103 

'Twas  this,  they  say  — 
As  they  bear  her  away, 

With  looks  askance  — 
That  made  her  reel, 
And  first  reveal 
A  move  so  wrong, 
That  did  not  belong 

To  the  merry  dance. 
And  thus  they  stayed 
The  alarum  made 

By  the  sudden  stroke, 
When  the  archer's  dart 
Struck  to  her  heart, 

That  she  never  spoke ! 


VI. 

I  too  must  fall  — 
Death  awaits  us  all  — 
Solemn  and  true ! 


104  POEMS. 

Disease  of  the  heart 
May  be  the  dart 

That  lays  me  low; 
But  not  in  the  hall 
Of  the  giddy  ball, 
Would  I  hear  the  call, 

O  God,  from  Thee! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  AUTUMN  RAIN. 

Chime  in,  my  song,  with  the  Autumn  rain, 
As  it  drearily  drives  o'er  the  yellow  plain ; 
As  it  sounds  in  the  wood,  as  it  drips  from  the 

trees, 
As  it  swells  in  the  rivers,  and  roars  to  the  seas. 

Chime  in,  my  song,  with  the  Autumn  rain, 
As  it  drops  from  the  eaves,  as  it  beats  on  the 

pane; 
As  it  plays  on  the  roof,  while  its  echoes  start, 
The  tune  of  the  past,  in  the  song  of  the  heart. 

(105) 


106  POEMS. 

Chime  in,  my  song,  with  the  Autumn  rain, 
There  is  no  despair  in  its  dreary  strain : 
Its  lone,  low  hummings  of  sadness  belong 
To  the  homeward  way,  and  the  pilgrim's  song. 

Chime  in,  my  song,  with  the  Autumn  rain, 
As  it  drearily  drives  o'er  the  yellow  plain : 
For  kind  alike  are  the  heavens  which  bring 
The  Autumn  rains  and  the  showers  of  Spring. 


FAITH,    HETOE 


i. 

The  world  is  sometimes  dark,  Heimie, 

But  then  the  heavens  are  bright; 
And  glories  that  are  hid  by  day, 
Dawn  out  along  the  upward  way, 
AVhen  all  below  is  night  — 

That  is  the  light  of  Faith,  Hennie. 

ii. 

The  spirit  hath  an  eye,  Hennie  — 
A  hidden,  mystic  eye ; 

(107) 


108  POEMS. 

That  sees  beyond  the  ken  of  sense, 
The  regions  of  a  world  immense 
In  glorious  prospect  lie. 

That  is  the  eye  of  Faith,  Hennie. 

in. 

The  spirit  hath  an  ear,  Hennie  — 

A  strange,  mysterious  ear; 
In  which,  as  in  a  smooth-lipped  shell, 
Echoes  of  distant  chorals  swell  — 

The  same  as  angels  hear. 

That  is  the  ear  of  Faith,  Hennie. 

IV. 

The  spirit  has  a  strength,  Hennie  — 

A  superhuman  strength; 
Which,  though  repressed  by  sin  and  earth, 
Will  come  by  grace  to  glorious  birth, 

And  live  unchained  at  length. 

That  is  the  strength  of  Faith,  Hennie. 


FAITH,    HENNIE!  109 


V. 

The  spirit  hath  a  home,  Hennie  — 

A  high  and  happy  home; 
Where,  in  the  Salem  of  the  blest, 
The  exiled  heart  shall  find  its  rest, 

And  never,  never  roam. 

That  is  the  home  of  Faith,  Hennie. 


10 


THE  GATE  TO  THE  LAM)  OF  THE 
BLEST. 

I  often  have  asked,  when  my  heart  was  op- 
pressed, 

For  the  gateway  that  leads  to  the  Land  of  the 
Blest ; 

And  I  longed  —  should  I  find  it  —  in  peace  to 
depart 

To  the  rest  of  the  weary,  the  home  of  the 
heart. 

I  have  dreamed  that  the  bright,  golden  vista 

of  even 

Might  be,  to  sad  spirits,  the  inlets  to  Heaven ; 

(110) 


THE    LAND     OF    THE    BLEST.  Ill 

And  iii  faith,  and  in  fancy,  I  sighed  after  rest, 
Beyond  those  bright  gates,  in  the  Land  of  the 
Blest. 

While  musing  in  sorrow,  an  angel  of  love 
Let  in  on  my  faith  a  sweet  light  from  above ; 
And  said,  as  it  lured  me :  "  I'll  lead  thee  to 

rest, 
And  show  thee  the  Gate  to  the  Land  of  the 

Blest." 

Led  on  by  the  angel,  and  sweetly  beguiled, 
We  came  to  the  newly-made  grave  of  my  child ! 
"Here,  here,"  said  the  angel,  "the  weary  find 

rest, 
And  this  is  the  Gate  to  the  Land  of  the  Blest." 

O  can  it  be  so,  that  this  mound  of  my  fears  — 
This  spot  of  my  sorrows,  bedewed  with  my 
tears  — 


112  POEMS. 

Is  the  brightest  on  earth,  which  I  long  sought 

distressed, 
The  inlet  and  Gate  to  the  Land  of  the  Blest. 

I  blest,  through  my  tears,  the  kind  angel  that 

smiled 
At  the  head  of  the  grave  of  my  now  sainted 

child ; 
And  was  glad  that  so  early  my  babe  found  the 

rest 
Of  the  grave,  and  the  Gate  to  the  Land  of  the 

Blest. 

Wave   gently,   ye  willows,  that  shadow  this 

mound ! 
Fall  softly,   ye   dews  of  the   night,   on  this 

ground ! 
Sleep   sweetly,   my  babe !  —  my  heart  is  at 

rest  — 
I  have  found  the  bright  Gate  to  the  Land  of 

the  Blest. 


AWAY   AND    AWAY. 


As  streams  are  hieing, 

Away  and  away; 
As  leaves  are  dying, 

Decay  and  decay; 

As  stars  at  break  of  day, 

As  childhood's  happy  play, 

As  youth's  sweet  smiling  May, 

So  pass  our  lives  away, 

Away  and  away. 
10  *  h  ( 113 ) 


114  POEMS. 

As  travellers  weary, 
We  go,  we  go; 
Though  oftentimes  weary, 
With  woe,  with  woe: 
As  goes  the  exile's  sigh, 
As  mounts  the  eagle  high, 
So  turns  our  pilgrim  eye 
Up  to  the  glorious  sky, 
Away  and  away. 


THE    SPIRIT'S    EVENTIDE. 

The  spirit  hath  its  evening  hours, 

When  dies  away  life's  restless  din ; 
Then  peace  sheds  down  its  soothing  powers, 
As  when  the  night  falls  round  the  flowers  — 
And  shuts  their  fragrance  in. 

The  bird  makes  soft  its  shaded  nest 
With  down  it  gathered  in  the  sun; 

And  so  we  come  to  sweetest  rest 
When  toil  is  o'er  and  work  is  done. 

(115) 


116  POEMS. 

Serener  light,  as  day  declines, 
On  the  hot  field  of  labor  shines ; 
While  memory,  in  this  holy  hour, 
Asserts  its  reproducing  power; 
And  to  our  resting  heart  appears 
The  fruit  of  toil,  without  its  tears. 

Such  peace  is  felt  divinely  nigh, 

In  rudest  storms  and  darkest  night; 
How  sweetly  doth  the  spirit  lie 
In  covert,  as  the  rage  goes  by ! 
A  rainbow,  in  the  dismal  storm, 
Stands  o'er  us  like  a  heavenly  form, 
And  all  beneath  is  bright. 

How  peaceful  will  that  evening  be, 

When  life's  last  work  is  bravely  done; 
And  every  woe  of  life  shall  cease, 
Near  that  great  Heart  of  love  and  peace, 
That  beats  above  the  Sun ! 


DEATH    OF    THE    PASTOR'S   WIFE. 


Oft,  oft  beside  the  solemn  bed  of  death, 

"Where  anxious  friends  sat  silent  in  their 

cloud  of  fears, 

The  faithful  Pastor  watched  the  feeble  breath ; 

And  there,  with  others  mourning, 'dropp'd 

affection's  tears. 

The  scene  is  changed !     In  grief  his  heart 

must  bow; 

Beside  his  own  belov'd  he  weeps  and  watches 

now. 

(117) 


118  POEMS. 

Within  the  parsonage  dread  stillness  reigns; 
And  in  the  room  of  death  but  looks,  not 

whispers,  speak; 
And,  as  advancing  death  the  victory  gains, 
Warm  tears  are  coursing  ever  warmer  down 

his  saddened  cheek. 
Chide  not  his  grief;  such  tears  e'en  faith  may 

shed, 
Since  Christ  at  Beth'ny  wept  o'er  His  beloved 

dead. 

'Tis  o'er!   We  mournful  say  that  she  has  gone, 
But  angels,  on  the  other  side,  say  she  has 
come ; 

Her  life  has  passed  from  view,  but  joyeth  on 
In  a  far  higher  flow  of  bliss,  and  in  a  hap- 
pier home. 

O  joy !  when  Christians  die  Heaven  greets  the 
earth, 

And  what  we  mourn  as  death  the  angels  hail 
as  birth. 


THE     PASTOR'S     WIFE.  119 

Close  her  eyes  for  sweetest  rest, 

Earthly  things  she  sees  no  more; 
Fold  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
For  her  work  is  o'er. 


Dress  her  in  the  purest  white, 
That  it  is  the  sainted  wTear; 
Place  white  lilies  on  her  shroud, 
Rosebuds  in  her  hair. 


Bear  her  to  the  church,  for  there 

She  has  learned  to  live  and  love; 
Round  her  offer  praise  and  prayer  — . 
She  will  join  above. 

Lay  her  gently  to  her  rest 

'Xcath  the  churchyard's  shaded  sod; 
Wait,  as  her  own  spirit  waits, 

For  the  trump  of  God. 


120  POEMS. 

Deck  her  grave  with  lively  green, 

Plant  a  flower  at  its  head; 
Hopeful,  lovely  be  the  scene 

Bound  the  lovely  dead. 


See  her  not  as  when  she  died, 

JSTor  as  sleeping  in  the  tomb  — 
Think  of  her  as  glorified 

In  the  heavenly  home. 


Speak  not  much  of  her  heart's  love 

This  the  world  can  little  bear; 
Angels  knew  her  well  above, 

They  will  tell  it  there. 

In  your  heart's  deep,  silent  love, 

Let  her  sacred  image  lie; 
'Tis  a  secret  bliss  you  bear, 

That  can  never  die. 


THE     PASTOR'S     WIFE.  121 

Joined  in  faith  and  holy  love, 

Christian  hearts  are  sundered  never 
Ours  on  earth  are  ours  above, 

One  in  Christ  forever! 


11 


HIDDEN    TOIL. 


Once  a  great  author  wrote  a  learned  work  : 

The  printer  printed  it;  and  then  he  took 

The  sheets,  and  with  them  to  the  hinder  went; 

The  binder  bound  it,  and  put  on  his  name. 

But  see  !  he  had  in  his  employ  a  lad 

Who  made  the  paste ;  but  not  the  justice  had 

To  let  the  world  know  what  the  boy  had  done. 

Thus  naught  was  known  of  him  without  whose 

help 

The  author's  book  could   never,  never  have 

been  made. 

(122) 


HIDDEN     TOIL.  123 

'Tis  an  ungrateful  world  in  which  we  live ; 

And  there  is  many  a  little  service  done 

For  which  no  thanks  are  paid.     There's  many 

a  stroke  — 
Yes,  many  a  weary  little  stroke,  in  secret  made, 
And  made  in  earnest,  too,  and  made  with  tears, 
That  is  not  kindly  counted  e'en  by  those 
Upon  whose  hearth  of  joy  it  casts  its  little  chip. 
A  thousand  little  services  make  up 
The  vasty  sum  of  good  which  those  enjoy 
Whom  better  fortune  hath  not  doomed  to  toil. 
These  come  not  in  the  count  of  gratitude, 
Because  they  are  so  small  —  e'en  as  the  drop 
Of  chew,  that  makes  the  blade  of  grass  more 

green, 
Doth  not  arrest  the  separate  view  of  him 
AVho  careless  o'er  the  summer  landscape  looks. 
But  there's  an  Eye  that  sees  the  pebble  small, 
E'en  as  the  mighty  world;  and  He  rewards 
The  widow's  mite,  e'en  as  the  gift  which  builds 


124  POEMS. 

A  cathedral — rewards  the  little  and  the  great. 
0  think  of  this,  ye  served !     0  think  of  this, 
Ye  servers,  and  be  glad  !     Look  up  in  hope  ! 
The  day  of  recompense  will  surely  come. 

Forgive  the  muse  —  'tis  but  a  little  thought 
Crept  into  song ;  I  gave  it  as  it  came. 
To  some,  if  well  applied,  it  brings  reproof; 
To  others  consolation,  rich  and  sweet. 


THE   WATER-LILY. 

Have  you  seen  the  water-lily  ? 

Seen  the  pond  or  water-lily? 

How  it  grows,  and  how  it  flowers? 

If  you  have  not,  I  shall  tell  you, 

Tell  you  of  the  water-lily, 

"Where  it  grows,  and  how  it  flowers. 

When  you  see  a  dismal  water, 
See  a  dark  and  dismal  water, 
Pond  cut  off  from  running  river, 
Hemmed  and  hedged  by  grass  and  bushes, 
Tepid,  stagnant,  black,  and  lonely, 
11  *  ( 125  ) 


126  POEMS. 

Filled  with  all  the  hateful  creatures 
Which  such  places  do  inhabit; 
Where  by  day  the  exhalations 
Of  the  hot  sun  spread  around  it, 
And  at  night  chill  fog  arises, 
Covering  all  its  stagnant  bosom  — 
Then  look  closely  —  you  shall  see  it, 
See  the  yellow  water-lily. 

In  a  pond  like  this,  believe  it  — 
In  this  pond  —  how  strange,  unlikely!' 
Grows  and  blooms  the  water-lily. 
If  still  further  you  should  ask  me, 
Ask  me  of  this  water-lily, 
How  it  grows,  and  all  about  it  — 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
Tell  you  in  such  words  as  follow: 

In  the  pond's  deep,  dismal  bottom, 
In  the  mud  its  roots  are  fastened; 


THE     WATER-LILY.  127 

Then  its  stem  is  long  and  slender, 
Pliant  almost  as  a  vine  is, 
Winding  through  the  water  upward, 
Till  it  reaches  to  the  surface. 


At  the  vine-like  termination 
Lie  two  leaves  like  twins  together  — 
Green  and  broad  they  lie  together: 
Flat,  and  floating  on  the  water, 
Keep  the  slender  stem  from  sinking 
To  the  dark  and  dismal  bottom; 
And  between  these  leaves — behold  it  !- 
Grows  the  lovely  yellow  flower, 
Blooms  the  charming  water-lily: 
Courts  the  sun  upon  the  surface 
Of  the  dark  and  gloomy  water. 

Should  you  ask  me  for  the  lesson 
Which  this  water-lily  teaches, 
Ask  me  how  it  would  address  us 


128  POEMS. 

Could  it  speak  such  words  as  we  do: 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you  — 
Hear  the  words  as  I  repeat  them  — 
Hear  its  words  of  holiest  wisdom : 

11  Child  of  earth,  and  child  of  sorrow 
You  are  often  in  dark  waters, 
Naught  but  dismal  scenes  around  you  — 
But  the  life  of  grace  will  keep  you, 
Keep  your  heavy  soul  from  sinking, 
Make  your  life  grow  to  the  surface : 
Faith  and  Hope,  twin  leaves,  sustain  you, 
Keep  your  head  above  the  water; 
And  between  them  ever  blooming, 
Fresher  than  the  water-lily, 
Love  will  show  its  fadeless  flower, 
Smiling  in  the  light  of  heaven. 

And  should  sorrow's  waters,  rising, 
Ever  threaten  to  submerge  you  — 


THE     WATER-LILY.  129 

Life  of  grace,  like  stem  of  lily, 
Rises  as  the  water  rises : 
Faith  and  Hope,  upon  the  surface  — 
Low  or  high,  or  calm  or  troubled  — 
Float  like  life-boats  with  their  treasure, 
Keeping  every  wave  beneath  them, 
And  the  flower  of  Love  between  them, 
Blooming  on  the  troubled  surface, 
Smiling  in  the  light  of  heaven." 


i 


THE    POWER    OF    LOVE. 

There  is  a  story,  which  you  may  have  heard, 
Of  a  fond  mother  and  her  darling  child. 
As  often  as  my  mem'ry  calls  it  up, 
It  wakens  thoughts  that  far  outrun  the  tale, 
And  teach  me  wisdom  of  the  loveliest  kind. 

The  child  had  just  attained  that  pleasant  age, 
"When  toys  and  playthings,  scattered  o'er  the 

room, 
Suffice  no  more,  and  the  essay  to  walk 
Is  a  success.     The  mother,  in  her  cares 
Engrossed,  a  moment  thought  not  of  her  child; 

(130) 


THE     POWER    OF    LOVE.  131 

But  sudden,  as  a  shock  electric,  through 
Her  heart  the  instincts  of  maternal  love, 
An  anxious  current,  ran.    "Where  is  the  child? 
She  sought  it  in  the  room  where  it  had  played ; 
Found  the  forsaken  toys,  but  not  the  child. 
Then,    quick   as   thought,    dire   fears   of  evil 

thrilled 
Iler  breast.     She  hastened  to  a  ledge  of  rocks 
A  stone-cast  from  her  door.     0  horrid  sight 
There,  bending  o'er  a  fearful  precipice, 
With  curious  eye,  and  much  amused,  the  child 
Surveyed  the  rocky  deeps  that  yawned  below  i 
A  shriek,  a  word,  yea,  even  the  lightest  tread 
Of  her  approaching  feet,  might  cause  alarm, 
And  turn  the  well-poised   scale  of  life   and 

death  ! 


The  revelation  of  the  mother  near  must  prove 
Its  loss  or  gain.     Its  gain,  if  she  attract; 
Its  loss,  if  she  create  alarm.     A  breath 


132  POEMS. 

Will  break  the  tiny  hold  of  thistle-down, 
Which  draws  adhesive  to  the  gentle  touch. 
She  must  attract,  allure  the  timid  child. 

Great  is  the  mystery  of  love,  which  gives 
Instinctive  wisdom  to  a  mother's  heart. 
Before  our  premises  are  found,  her  mind, 
Intuitive,  hath  the  conclusion  reached ; 
And,  without  process,  is  her  scheme  complete. 

Like  as  a  statue  in  the  attitude  of  love  — 
"With  all  its  features  most  intensely  fond, 
But  no  disturbing  heart  within — she  stands. 
Love,    like    a    mighty    magnet,    draws    her 

heart, 
And  fears,  like  furies,  bid  her  rush,  embrace ; 
But  firm,  and  calm,  and  anxiously  she  stands 
In  its  convenient  sight ;  and,  watching  for  its 

eye, 
She  bares  her  snowy  bosom  to  her  child ! 


THE     POWER     OF     LOVE.  133 

What  agony  of  love  !     What  trembling  hopes 
And  fears  into  that  awful  moment  crowd ! 
Will  not  its  guardian  angel  near  unseen, 
Ply  kind  suggestions  to  that  infant  heart  ? 
It  will.     Behold !  the  child  looks  round,  and 

spies, 
With  sudden  charm,  the  well-placed  lure  of 

love ; 
And,  by   strange,  sacred   instinct   drawn,  or 

moved 
By  feeble  mem'ry  of  a  former  good, 
Creeps  from  the  fearful  rocky  ledge  away, 
To    seek    that    font    of    life  —  its    mother's 

breast ! 

0  then  the  sudden  rush  and  blest  embrace ! 
Can  any,  save  a  mother,  know  the  joy 
Which    such    salvation    brings  ?       Can    any 

heart, 
Save  hers,  conceive  a  like  device  of  love  ? 

12 


134  POEMS. 

I  know  a  tale  which  first  my  mother  told, 
And  which,  since  then,  I've  often  heard  and 

read : 
Of  this,  I  ween,  the  one  just  heard  the  echo  is. 

A  world  of  wandering,  erring,  sinning  men 
Hung  o'er  the  gulf  of  everlasting  woe. 
The  Father  drew  in  sight,  and  to  their  view 
Bared  his  rich  bosom  of  eternal  love. 
There,  in  a  halo  of  attractive  light, 
The  truant,  erring  wanderers  saw, 
With  arms  extended,  and  with  looks  of  love, 
His  Holy,  well-beloved  Son.     Attracted 
By  th'  inviting  scene,  as  weaker  bodies 
By  the  stronger  drawn,  in  haste  obedient 
To  the  charm  and  vision  of  unfathomed  love, 
They  turn  from  death  to  life  —  escape  the  gulf 
That  wide  with  hellish  hunger  yawns  —  and 

find 
Blest  welcome  to  a  Heavenly  Father's  arms. 


THE     POWER     OF     LOVE.  135 

0  tell  this  story  to  the  earth's  far  ends ! 
In  every  vale,  on  every  hill,  on  continents 
And  isles  —  till  man  shall  own  the  power  of 

love. 
Fulfil,  O  Christ!  Thy  words:  "And  I,  if  I 
Be  lifted  up,  will  draw  all  men  to  me." 


i 


THE    SWAN. 


Like  a  soft  song  that  in  its  own  blest  tones 
expires, 
The  peaceful  swan  sings  as  it  soars,  and, 
soaring,  dies: 
So  sweetly  pass  the  happy  saints  from  earth 

away  — 
So  die  they,  breathing  forth  a  swan-like  fare- 
well lay 
To  those  they  leave  on  earth,  as  up  to  Hea- 
ven they  rise. 

(136) 


THE     SWAN.  137 

White  as  the  stainless   bosom  of  the  snowy 
swan, 
The  robes  celestial  are  which  all  the  sainted 
wear : 
Calm  as  the  peaceful  surface  of  the  waveless 

lake, 
When   sailing   swans   their   summer   evening 
pastimes  take, 
The  spirits  are  of  all  who  rest  forever  there. 


12 


THE   VAMPIRE    SIK 

In  dreary  dens  and  dusky  regions  of  the  earth, 

The  vampire,  Sin,  avoids  the  light  of  day ; 
But  in  the  twilight  deep  he  seeks  the  halls  of 
mirth, 
And  flits  around  to  mark  his  future  prey. 
The  ruddy  cheek,  the  life  so  glad  and  light, 
Inflamed  with  wine  and  lust — "  Ho !  tempt- 
ing sight !  — 
How  I   shall  glut  upon   that  blood  to- 
night!" 

(138) 


THE     VAMPIRE     SIN.  139 

The  feast  is  o'er,  the  mirthful  dance  is  past ; 

The  wreaths  are  faded,  and  the  lamps  are  out ; 
The  sated  guests  are  now  dispersing  fast, 
And  jocund  rings   around   the   homeward 
shout. 
Soon  chiding  conscience,  and  a  restless 

heart, 
The  solace  find  which  slumbers  can  impart 
On  couches  softened  by  luxurious  art. 

In  silence  now,  the  vampire  Sin,  that  feeds 

Upon  the  blood  of  souls,  draws  darkly  near! 
Fast  to  its  vitals  leeched,  the  spirit  bleeds, 
Disturbed  by  neither  weakness,  pain,  nor  fear. 
Dull  surfeit  opiates  the  fevered  brain, 
The  vampire's  fanning  wings   allay  the 

pain  — 
The  spirit  slumbers  ne'er  to  wake  again  ! 


THE    TWIN    FISHERS 


A     DIUGE — DEDICATED     TO     HENNIE     AND     ANNIE. 


Who  is  not  acquainted  with  the  two  plaster-of-Paris  images, 
borne  about  and  sold  by  Italians,  called  the  Twin  Fishers? 
What  lovely  symbols  of  innocent  childhood  !  In  their  aprons 
they  essay  to  carry  their  fishes ;  but  the  smooth-sided  crea- 
tures of  the  stream  are  ever  gliding  out  at  the  sides,  and  the 
innocent  children  elevate  one  side  of  the  apron  only  to  let 
them  slide  out  the  more  surely  on  the  other;  and  with  what 
earnestness  of  look — half  perplexity,  because  they  are  drop- 
ping out,  and  half  admiration  of  the  beautiful  captives  them- 
selves—  do  they  gaze  at  them  jumping  at  their  feet,  while 
others  still  are  falling  from  the  carelessly-held  apron !  Many 
thoughts  come  up  in  our  mind  while  beholding  these  lovely 
Twin  Fishers.  Though  they  are  not  of  marble,  and  would 
perhaps  never  be  thought  of,  in  connection  with  exhibitions 
of  statuary,  as  "  things  of  art,"  yet  sure  we  are  that  there 
are  many  who  feel  the  beauty  of  these  images,  where  affecta- 

(140) 


THE     TWIN     FISHERS.  141 

tion  of  higher  pretensions  to  taste  would  disown  seeing  it.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  these  innocent  little  creatures  are  so  popu- 
lar as  mantel  and  hearth  ornaments.  Thus,  then,  it  came  to 
pass  that  a  pair  of  the  Fishers  had  long  graced  the  mantel  of 
a  parlor  where  we  had  enjoyed  many  a  social  hour.  It  came 
to  pass,  also,  in  the  process  of  time,  that  on  a  sad  and  stormy 
day  the  veering  wind  sent  a  sudden  blast  down  the  chimney, 
the  fire-board  fell,  and  the  little  Fishers  lay  in  wreck  and  ruin 
over  the  floor !  Then  it  was  that  it  fell  to  the  Poet  to  allay 
the  common  grief,  by  the  song  of  the  Twin  Fishers;  and  in- 
asmuch as  sorrow  is  lightened  by  being  distributed,  we  invite 
the  reader  to  join  us  in  these  measures  of  sorrow. 


I. 

How  oft  have  ye  cheered  me,  ye  sweet,  tuneful 

Nine, 
When  dull,  heavy  sorrow  has  darkened  my 

soul; 
Come  now  with  a  song  to  this  sad  heart  of 

mine, 
And  calm  the  rough  billows  that  over  me 

roll. 
0  soothing  consolers !  ye  only  have  skill 
To   ease   my   heart's   tremor,   and   bid   it  be 

still. 


142  POEMS. 


II. 


Not  selfishly  sad  do  I  call  for  your  aid ; 

Not  mine  was  the  first  bitter  draught  of  this 

woe; 
On  friends  of  my  heart  the  bereavement  is  laid, 
And  theirs  are  the  tears  with  which  mine  own 

now  flow. 
Give  words  that   upon  their  stormed   spirits 

shall  fall 
Like  the  music  of  David  on  the  sad  heart  of 

Saul. 

in. 

Let  me  touch,  O  Muses  !  your  tenderest  vein, 
And  call  forth  your  sympathy  freely  and  true ; 

Lend,  lend  me  your  numbers,  and  lead  on  the 
strain, 
Till  I  sing  all  the  sorrowful  story  to  you  — 

A  story  beginning  all  cheerful  as  light, 

But  ending  as  sad  and  as  fearful  as  night ! 


THE     TWIN     FISHERS.  143 

[V. 

0  joy  on  the  day  when  from  Italy's  strand  — 
Yes,  Italy,  land  of  soft  airs  and  bright  skies — 

Came  the  wit  of  the  head  and  the  skill  of  the 
hand, 
That  for  pleasure  of  others  so  wittingly  plies, 

From  flour  of  plaster  the  image  to  mould, 

To  Xature  so  true,  with  its  graces  untold ! 

v. 

Yes,  joy  above  all,  on  that  happiest  hour, 
Wheu,  with  high  inspiration,  the  artist  con- 
ceived 
This  finest,  most  graceful  display  of  his  power, 
Which  praise  above  all,  and  from  all,  has 
received. 
When  the  little  Twin  Fishers  stood  graceful  to 

view, 
Joy  shone  in  his  eyes  like  the  sun  in  the  dew. 


144 


POEMS 


VI. 

The  Brother  as  mild  as  a  morning  in  May, 
The  Sister  as  meek  as  a  cherub — they  stand ; 

And,  bearing  the  little  pet  fishes  away, 

They  glide  through  the  apron  and  slip  through 
the  hand. 

Such  innocent  looks  of  contentment  and  love, 

We  are  wont  to  transfer  to  the  cherubs  above. 


VII. 

Sweet  picture  of  childhood ! — that  holiest  time  ! 
No  shadow  of  sorrow  has   darkened  their 
brows ; 
With  hearts  that  hear  music  from  Heaven's 
pure  clime, 
With  love  never  checked  by  perfidious  vows. 
O  beautiful  Fishers!  how  mild  and  how  sweet, 
With  the  pets  in  their  aprons,  the  pets  at  their 
feet. 


THE     TWIN     FISHERS.  145 

VIII. 

When  Hennie  and  Annie  had  purchased  the 

pair, 
And  bore  them  with  fondness  away  in  their 

arms; 
The  act,  to  the  thoughtful,  was  evidence  rare 
That  their  hearts  were  well  used  to  the  purest 

of  charms. 
And  there,  'neath  the  mantel,  the  Twin  Fishers 

stood, 
The  joy  of  the  pure,  and  the  praise  of  the  good. 

IX. 

But  oh !  that  misfortune  should  sadden  my  song, 
And  shadows  should  darken  the  joys  that  I 
sing! 
But  earth  never  leaves  us  the  beautiful  long, 
And  sweetest  of  flowers  first  attract  the  keen 
sting ! 

13    '  K 


146  POEMS. 

'Tis  sad — yet  'tis  well,  for  if  this  were  not  so, 
"We  might  sell  our  bright  Heaven  for  the  bright 
things  below. 


Sad  day  when  the  storm,  roaring  fierce  round 

the  roof, 
Sent  a  blast  down  the  chimney,  so  sudden 

and  strong 
That  the  fire-board  yielded — the  nails  were  not 

proof 
For  the  strength  of  the  wind  that  bore  down 

on  it  long. 
The  dear  little  Fishers,  so  lovely  before, 
A  wreck  and  a  ruin  were  found  on  the  floor ! 

XI. 

How  changed  is  the  place !    Though  new  taste 
and  new  care 
Have  been  busy  around  where  the  ruin  was 
wrought ; 


TliE     TWIN     FISHERS.  147 

In   vain   would    the  fresh-painted    fire-board 

there 
Beguile  the  sad  eye  —  it  is  nought!   it  is 

nought ! 
No !  gone  and  for  aye,  is  the  charm  and  the 

pride, 
The  mantel  is  lone  with  no  pets  at  its  side ! 


WINTER   AND    THE    GBAVE. 

"If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again?"  —  Job. 

"Wintry  !  wintry  !  dreary  weather ! 
On  earth's  frozen  bosom  gather 

Cold  and  icy  shapes  of  death. 
Thro'  the  heavens  the  storms  rave  boldly, 
E'en  the  friendly  stars  blink  coldly: 

Life  and  hope  gasp  short  for  breath. 

Cheerless !  cheerless !  gloomy  weather ! 
Death  and  life  have  met  together, 
Warring  fiercely  with  each  other: 

(148) 


WINTER  AND  THE  GRAVE.    149 

O'er  the  surface  death  is  riding, 
Life  beneath  is  warmly  hiding, 
In  the  nursing  earth  —  its  mother. 

Hopeful,  hopeful  still,  though  cheerless; 
Let  our  wraiting  eyes  be  tearless; 

See  the  sun  rise  higher,  stronger  — 
He  will  warm  earth's  torpid  powers, 
Spring  will  bring  us  life  and  flowers, 

Death  will  reign  o'er  life  no  longer. 

Sleeping,  sleeping,  dead  and  dreary, 

In  their  graves,  earth's  wanderers  weary 

Rest  in  hope  and  free  from  pain: 
See  dark  Winter's  fate  foretoken 
How  death's  slumbers  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  dead  shall  live  again. 
13* 


CHKIST    THE    LOVELIEST. 

"He  is  altogether  lovely."— Sono  of  Solomon. 

Lovely  is  evening's  soft  twilight; 
Lovely  is  heaven's  meek  starlight; 
Lovely  are  flowers  in  the  sunlight  — 
But  Christ  is  the  loveliest  of  all. 

Loving  is  father  and  mother; 
Loving  is  sister  and  brother; 
Loving  are  friends  to  each  other  — 

But  Christ  is  more  loving  than  all, 

(150) 


CHRIST     THE     LOVELIEST.  151 

Love  on  the  earth 

What  is  purest  and  nearest  — 
Love  that  above 

Which  your  faith  can  see  clearest  — 
But  oh !  love  your  Saviour, 

The  tend'rest  and  dearest; 
For  He  is  most  loving,  and  loveliest  of  all. 


BEHOLD    THE    MAN! 

(John  xix.  5.) 

See  the  Saviour,  meek  and  mild, 

"Holy,  harmless,  undefiled," 

Bro't,  by  hearts  o'ercharged  with  gall, 

Into  Pilate's  judgment-hall ; 

Hear  the  fiend-like,  murd'rous  cry: 

"By  our  law  He  ought  to  die." 

See  Him  in  the  judgment-place  — 

Eyes  of  love  and  lips  of  grace ; 

Through  the  trial's  wretched  sham, 

God-like,  beautiful,  and  calm, 

Answering  to  the  charge  they  bring: 

"Sir,  thou  sayest,  I  am  a  king." 

(152) 


BEHOLD     THE     MAN!  153 

See  Him,  while  malicious  ire 
Kindles  in  their  eyes  of  fire ; 
See  Him,  while  they  rage  and  cry: 
"Away,  away,  and  crucify  — 
To  the  cross  the  traitor  bring, 
Csesar  is  our  only  king." 

See  what  now  the  king  adorns  — 
Cursed,  cruel  crown  of  thorns ; 
Purple  robes,  and  bended  knee. 
Mock  His  royal  Deity, 
While  rude  shouts  around  Him  ring: 
"Hail!  all  hail!  thou  Jewish  King!" 

See,  He  bends  beneath  his  woes, 
Thick  they  fall,  th'  insulting  blows! 
While  they  smite,  no  murmuring  word 
From  His  sacred  lips  is  heard; 
Vainly,  to  the  cruel  clan, 
Pilate  saith:  "Behold  the  man!" 


i 


154  POEMS. 

See  Him  bear  the  shameful  load 
Up  the  malefactor's  road, 
"While  the  ever-deep'ning  gash 


Takes  anew  the  scourger's  lash ! 
Lamb-like  sufferer,  who  can, 
Calm,  unmoved,  "  Behold  the  man  ! 


° 


Lamb-like  sufferer,  who  can, 


Stand,  my  soul,  where  Mary  stood, 
See  them  plant  the  dreadful  wood ! 
See,  thy  God,  thy  Sacrifice, 
Hangs  upon  the  cross,  and  dies! 
O  salvation's  wondrous  plan ! 
Let  the  world  "Behold  the  man! 


TOLLING!    TOLLING! 

The  bell !  it  tolls ! 

How  heavily  it  rolls 
Its  solemn,  mournful  cadence  on  the  ear ! 

It  tells  us  that  some  mortal 

Is  borne  toward  the  portal 
Of  the  grave,  upon  a  bier. 

Who's  dead?     O  say! 

Whom  do  they  bear  away 

Slow  to  the  muffled  music  of  the  bell  ? 

A  father  or  a  mother? 

A  child,  a  sister,  brother? 

Who  is  it?     Can  you  tell? 

(155) 


156  POEMS. 

Enough  —  we  know 

That  hearts  are  pierced  with  woe  — 
Their  heavy,  heavy  sorrow  let  us  share. 

Whoe'er  it  be  that's  borne, 

Some  hearth  is  left  forlorn, 
Vacant  some  dreary  chair! 

Was  he  —  0  say !  — 

Whom  they  now  bear  away — 

Was  he  a  child  of  God  ?  an  heir  of  Heaven  ? 
Then  peaceful  are  his  slumbers, 
He  has  joined  the  happy  numbers 

Of  those  who  are  forgiven. 


Or  does  it  toll 

For  some  unransomed  soul, 
Whom  death  hath  from  his  earthly  idols 
torn  ? 

Hark,  the  sad,  tolling  bell: 

'Twere  better,  says  each  knell, 
If  he  never  had  been  born ! 


SPEAK    GENTLY.1 

Speak  gently  to  thy  father, 

He  giveth  thee  thy  bread; 
His  toils  have  earned  the  pillow 

Which  nightly  rests  your  head. 
The  home  from  which  you  bound  at  morn, 

To  which  at  night  you  hie, 
He  won  with  many  a  weary  stroke, 

With  many  a  weary  sigh. 

1  Long  after  this  little  poem  had  been  written — never  to  his 
knowledge  before — the  author  met  with  the  popular  song  which 
is  so  much  like  this  as  readily  to  suggest  the  idea  of  imitation. 
If  it  has  any  connection  with  its  senior  brother,  it  must  be  the 
fruit  of  an  impression  made  on  the  mind  by  that  song,  of  which 
the  author  was  not  in  the  least  conscious  at  the  time  this  was 

14  ( 157 ) 


158  POEMS. 

Speak  kindly  to  thy  mother; 

She  blest  your  infant  sleep; 
She  watched  your  "dawn  of  little  joys," 

With  feelings  fond  and  deep; 
And  as  you  grew  in  size  and  years, 

She  still  was  by  your  side, 
To  chide  your  faults,  allay  your  fears  — 

A  gentle,  tender  guide. 

Speak  gently  to  thy  sister  — 

How  pure  her  love  to  you !  — 
You'll  never  find  a  love  on  earth 

So  constant,  chaste,  and  true. 
She  meekly  hears  your  little  griefs, 

And  weeps  when  you  are  sad; 
She  nourishes  your  little  joys, 

And  smiles  when  you  are  glad. 

written.  If  such  is  the  case,  it  may  stand  here  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  a  very  mysterious  power  of  memory,  and  of  the  way 
in  which  impressions  may  lie  latent  in  the  mind.  If  the  idea 
is  original,  it  may  show  how  the  same  general  conception 
may  be  formed  independently  in  different  minds. 


SPEAK     GENTLY.  159 

0  never !  in  that  circle  bright, 

Of  home's  most  hallowed  joy, 
Let  one  unkind,  ungentle  word, 

The  reigning  peace  destroy. 
Speak  as  you  think  bright  angels  speak, 

Or  saints,  in  realms  above, 
Where  no  discordancies  disturb 

That  happy  home  of  love. 


OUR    SCHOOL-BOY   DAYS. 

Our  school-boy  days  !  our  school-boy  days! 

How  kind  the  joy  they  cast 
Upon  the  heart,  as  thoughts  of  them 

Come  glimmering  o'er  the  past; 
They  come  as  come  the  joyous  gleams 
Of  sweet  but  half-forgotten  dreams ! 

Our  school-boy  days !  our  school-boy  days ! 

They  come  but  once  in  life; 
But  we  look  back  with  smiles  upon 

Their  struggles  and  their  strife  — 

As  echoes  of  a  pleasant  lay 

Charm  when  the  song  has  died  away. 

(160) 


OUR     SCHOOL-BOY     DAYS.  161 

Our  school-boy  days  !  our  school-boy  days ! 

There's  magic  in  that  sound; 
It  calls  our  young  companions  up, 

And  sets  them  smiling  round, 
With  all  their  little  hopes  and  fears, 
Their  little  joys,  and  little  tears. 

Our  school-boy  days  !  our  school-boy  days ! 

Life  looked  all  sunshine  then ; 
How  longed  our  young,  ambitious  hearts, 

Impatient  to  be  men ! 
But  have  we  found,  in  life's  rough  ways, 
The  joy  we  lost  with  school-boy  days? 

Our  school-boy  days  !  our  sehool-boy  days  ! 

Adieu!  —  in  your  bright  bowers, 
Fond  memory  shall  while  away 

Life's  later,  heavier  hours  — 
Still  humming  o'er  the  pleasant  lays 
Of  school-boy's  happ}7,  happy  days ! 

14*  L 


JOY. 

Seek  not  the  joy  that  warbleth 

Like  an  airy,  sportive  song  — 
The  joy  thaj:  lightly  danceth, 

Like  the  laughing  rill  along; 
But  seek  the  joy  that  swelleth 

Like  the  organ's  gravest  notes, 
That  like  a  river  rolleth 

Which  heaviest  burdens  floats. 

(162) 


joy.  163 

Not  joy  that  post-haste  rideth 

Along  like  latest  news; 
It  but  a  moment  bideth, 

Like  morning's  transient  dews: 
The  deep  heart  never  feeleth, 

Nor  owns  its  passing  power; 
But  seek  the  joy  that  calmeth, 

Like  evening's  thoughtful  hour. 

Seek  not  the  joy  that  flasheth 

Like  a  crazy  meteor's  light, 
Along  the  dark  empyrean, 

In  the  solemn  dead  of  night; 
But  seek  the  joy  that  kindleth 

Like  morning's  glowing  sky, 
That  lights  the  dreary  earth  beneath, 

The  glorious  heaven  on  high. 


MATINS    AND   VESPERS. 

Pray  in  the  morning  hour  — 

Grace,  like  the  light  and  dew, 
Is  richest  on  the  spirit  shed, 

When  thoughts  are  fresh  and  new. 
The  rising  sun  lights  up  the  heavens 

Before  he  shines  below; 
So  first  on  God,  and  then  on  earth, 

Your  morning  thoughts  bestow. 

(164) 


MATINS     AND     VESPERS.  165 

Pray  in  the  evening  hour  — 

Grace,  like  the  golden  light, 
That  opens  when  the  sun  is  set, 

Will  smile  upon  the  night. 
The  light  still  lingers  on  the  sky, 

When  all  is  dark  below; 
So  last  on  God,  and  not  on  earth, 

Your  evening  thoughts  bestowT. 


DYING. 


Can  this  be  death 
That  paints  my  cheeks  a  deadly  pale? 

Say,  is  this  death? 
My  eyes  stand  still,  my  senses  fail  — 

Sure  this  is  death ! 
The  earth,  till  now  so  fair  and  bright, 
Eecedes  before  my  dim,  dim  sight  — 

I  know  'tis  death ! 
Like  one  who,  weary  of  the  light, 
Desires  to  sleep  ere  it  is  night, 

And  courts  repose, 
So  now  across  my  senses  creep 

The  power  and  charm  of  early  sleep ; 

(166) 


DYING.  167 

And  fainter,  feebler,  slower  grows 
My  pulse  —  0  tell  me,  who  that  knows, 
Is  not  this  death  ? 

This  must  be  death  — 
Is  it  not  death?     Is  it  not,  say  — 

This  feeble  breath? 
This  ebbing  of  my  strength  away  — 

Is  not  this  death? 
It  comes  like  evening's  kind  repose, 
"While  twilight  shadows  round  me  close  — 

Sure  this  is  death. 
All  objects  fade  in  viewless  air, 
And  leave  no  trace  or  image  there: 

I  know  'tis  death ! 

*f*  *t*  *i*  *T*  *P  *f» 

My  eyes  now  gain  their  power  once  more, 
But  see  not  what  they  saw  before ! 
I  sink  —  I  rise — 'tis  night — 'tis  day! 
My  spirit  plumes  to  leave  its  clay — 
Oh,  this  is  death ! 


MAY   IS    COMING. 

May  is  coming, 
Green,  green  May. 
What  a  creeping  forth,  so  cheerful, 
Somewhat  timid,  tho',  and  fearful; 
Birds  and  buds,  first  slyly  peeping, 
Then  into  the  sunlight  creeping, 
"Warm  themselves  to-day. 


May  is  coming, 
Blooming  May. 
Hail,  sweet  time  of  early  flowers, 
Fresh  as  childhood's  rosy  hours ! 

(168) 


MAY     IS     COMING.  169 

Almost  do  I  wish —  though  vain  — 
That  I  were  a  boy  again, 

'Mid  the  flowers  to  play! 


May  is  coming, 

Tuneful  May. 
Insects,  warmed,  begin  their  humming, 
Tell  the  time  of  music  coming : 
Joy,  and  peace,  and  hope  are  beating 
Sweetly  in  the  heart,  repeating 

Love's  soft,  mellow  lay. 


May  is  coming, 
Cheerful  May. 
Can  it  be  there  will  be  dying? 
Will  the  winds,  with  mournful  sighing, 
Ever  blight  a  scene  so  cheerful, 
Leaving  it  all  sad  and  tearful, 
In  its  last  decay? 
15 


170  POEMS. 

Autumn's  coming, 
By-and-bye ! 
Storms  are  in  the  distance  looming, 
Frosts  will  blight  what  now  is  blooming. 
Oh !  let  rosy  youth  remember, 
May  must  yield  to  bleak  September, 
"We,  like  grass,  must  die ! 


OUR    SAVIOUR'S    ADVENT. 

"We  hare  seen  his  star  in  the  east."  — The  Magi. 

Dark  was  the  dreary  night  of  sin, 

Which  o'er  Judea  hung; 
Upon  the  altar,  pale  and  dim, 

The  offering  lingered  long, 
While  not  a  spark  from  heaven  appeared 

To  start  the  sacred  flame; 
Where  God  was  once  devoutly  feared, 

They  feared  Him  but  in  name. 
Before  cold,  Pharisaic  pride, 
The  life  of  Israel's  worship  died. 

(171) 


172  POEMS. 

The  Essene,  with  gloomy  face, 

In  caverns  sought  his  God; 
The  Sadducee,  with  polished  pace, 

In  halls  of  pleasure  trod. 
At  festal  boards  he  gayly  bowed, 

And  sumptuous  feasts  he  gave; 
But  hung  a  cold  and  cheerless  shroud 

O'er  all  beyond  the  grave. 

Some  pious  Jews,  with  faltering  pace, 

Still  sought  the  Sacred  Hill; 
But  in  Judea's  holy  place, 

The  oracle  was  still. 
In  vain  they  look'd,  with  wistful  eyes ; 

Devotion's  flame  grew  cold  — 
There  burned  not  there  the  sacrifice, 

As  it  had  burned  of  old. 

"  What  of  the  night?"  the  watchmen  cried, 
With  loud  and  earnest  voice: 

"The  morning  comes!"  a  voice  replied, 
"Behold  it,  and  rejoice!" 


ouii    saviour's    advent.        173 

Then  o'er  Judea  rose  the  light 

Of  Bethlehem's  bright  star: 
Shepherds  beheld  it  in  the  night, 

And  wise  men  from  afar. 
Behold,  He  comes !  the  promis'd  King, 
While  men  rejoice  and  angels  sing! 


15* 


OH!  VALUE  THE  HOUR  AS  IT 
HASTETH. 


Oh  !  value  the  hour  as  it  hasteth, 

Like  a  post  on  its  way; 
It  only  is  yours  while  it  wastetb, 

Not  yours  when  'tis  wasted  away. 
The  moment  that's  past  —  is  past  ever, 

The  future  will  come  —  perhaps  never; 
The  present  is  yours  —  not  forever, 

But  just  while  it  hasteth  away. 

(174) 


oh!    value   the   hour.  175 

The  days  of  your  youth  and  your  childhood, 

Have  been  —  are  no  more ! 
Like  gay,  singing  birds  of  the  wild-wood, 

Gone  when  the  summer  is  o'er. 
So  short  a  life  —  dost  thou  abuse  it? 

The  hast'ning  hour  —  dost  thou  use  it? 
Eemember,  ere  long  thou  wilt  lose  it, 

For  see  how  it  hasteth  away! 


NEW   YEAR'S    MIDNIGHT. 


Twelve  !  twelve !  twelve!    'Tis  twelve  o'clock; 

Shrill,  shrill  crows  the  watchful  cock; 

Tick !  tick !  tick  !  goes  the  mantel  clock. 

Slow,  slow,  solemnly, 

Swings  the  pendulum; 

And  the  moments  come  — 

Come,  come,  silently, 

Go,  go,  steadily, 

At  each  swinging  to,  to  —  fro,  fro  — 

Of  the  pendulum. 

(176) 


NEW    year's    midnight.         177 


II. 

Come,  come,  come,  seek  a  genial  berth, 
Close,  close  up  to  the  blazing  hearth; 
Whilst  round,  round  rolls  the  wintry  earth, 
And  the  stars,  stars,  brightly, 
With  the  moon,  moon  nightly, 

In  their  courses  move; 
All  keeping,  telling  time, 
With  a  kind  of  mystic  rhyme; 
For  the  universe  of  shining,  rolling  spheres, 
Is  a  vast  and  wrond'rous  clock,  as  it  appears, 
Grand,  and  broad,  and  deep,  and  high 
Made  to  measure  ages  by; 
And  upon  its  dial  face 
God,  and  men,  and  angels  trace 
Times   and  seasons,   as  they  go,  go  —  come, 
come  — 

As  they  go  and  come. 

M 


178  POEMS. 


Ill 


List !  list !  list !     Softly  creep  the  years  along, 
Grey,  grey,  grey  hairs  grow  my  hair  among. 
Shadows  lengthen,  and  life's  evening-time 
Comes,  like  the  autumn  sere, 
Comes  nearer  every  year; 
I  soon  shall  hear  its  vesper  chime. 

Every  swinging  to,  to  —  fro,  fro  — 
Of  the  pendulum : 
Every  change  of  times  and  seasons  as  they 
run  — 

As  they  go  and  come  — 
Nearer  brings  the  moment  ever, 
When  for  me  all  years  forever 

Shall  have  come  and  gone. 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    TREES. 

Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
0  how  many  trees ! 

They  cover  o'er  the  mountains,  they  skirt  the 
vales  and  leas ; 

They  make  the  wide,  wide  forests,  that  roll 
like  mighty  seas. 
I've  often  sat  and  pondered 
Beneath  their  shade,  and  wondered 
That  the  poets,  fond  of  singing, 
Have  not  set  the  woodlands  ringing 


"With  the  song  of  trees. 


(179) 


i 


180  POEMS. 

Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
0  ye  slighted  trees ! 
Gladly  would  I  now  become  a  poet,  should  you 

please 
To   send   me   inspiration   upon  the  pleasant 
breeze. 
Let  the  storms  that  thundering  roll 
From  the  forest  on  my  soul, 
And  the  wind  that  joys  and  grieves, 
As  it  gently  lifts  the  leaves, 
Sing  me  of  the  trees. 

Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
Every  kind  of  trees. 
Little  tiny,  tiny  shrubs,  and  huge,  tremendous 

trees ; 
Some  bend  before  the  zephyr,  some  bear  the 
storm  with  ease; 
Various  as  are  human  faces, 
Useful,  pretty  in  their  places; 


THE     SONG     OF    THE     TREES.         181 

Love  we  not  the  humblest,  smallest, 
Ever  as  the  proudest,  tallest 

Of  these  pleasant  trees  ? 

Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
Young  and  growing  trees. 
How  tender  is  the  leaf,  and  how  smooth  the 

bark  of  these ! 
In  long  and  icy  winters  their  tops  do  often 
freeze ; 
The  cattle  break  and  clip  them; 
The  worms  oft  bore  and  nip  them; 
Fresh  to-day  and  crushed  to-morrow ! 
Often  have  I  looked  with  sorrow 
On  these  struggling  trees. 

Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
Ancient,  mighty  trees. 
I  feel  like  taking  off  my  hat  whene'er  I  meet 

with  these ; 
They  are  often  hung  with  mosses,  and  are  hol- 
low for  the  bees. 
16 


182 


POEMS. 


By  day  the  sap-bird's  drumming, 
And  by  night  the  hoarse  wind's  humming, 
Maketh  music  low  and  lonely, 
Which  is  nowhere  heard,  save  only 


In  the  song  of  trees. 


Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
The  fruit-bearing  trees; 
How  many  rich  varieties  are   all  around  of 

these ! 
They  charm  the  eye  and  tempt  the  taste  of 
every  one  who  sees ; 
How  the  fragrant  blossoms  blow  ! 
How  they  fall  like  flakes  of  snow  ! 
And  the  fruit,  so  red  and  yellow, 
Hangs  luscious,  ripe,  and  mellow, 
Smiling  on  the  trees. 


Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
Cool  and  shady  trees; 


THE     SOXG     OF     THE     TREES.  183 

Amid  the  quivering  heat,  when  there  scarcely 

stirs  a  breeze, 
How  grateful  to  the  weary  the  shadow  is  of 
these ! 
Round  the  spring  or  round  the  pump, 
They  are  nestled  in  a  clump ; 
And  the  leafy,  bushy  mass, 
Throws  its  shadow  on  the  grass  — 
Bless  the  shady  trees! 

Trees,  trees,  trees  — 
Rehearse  the  song  of  trees ; 
Arrange  yourselves  in  choirs,  ye  forests  and 

ye  leas, 
And  swell  the  mighty  chorus,  till  it  soundeth 
like  the  seas. 
Joy-notes  for  the  sighing  bring, 
Dirge-notes  for  the  dying  sing: 
Breathe,  ye  zephyrs,  soft  cantations; 
Roll,  ye  storm-winds,  jubilations  — 
Swell  the  song  of  trees. 


THE    OSTRICH. 


The  ostrich  loves  the  desert  deeps, 

All  lone,  and  drear,  and  dry; 
Where  the  wind  rolls  up  its  drifted  heaps 
Of  sand  against  the  sky. 
In  regions  such  as  these  past  ages  did  locate 
The  awful  homes  of  spirits  reprobate ! 
And  that  fearful  note 
From  the  ghostly  throat 
Of  this  desert  bird  — 

(184) 


THE     OSTRICH.  185 

As  it  doth  rebound, 
With  terrific  sound, 
From  the  desert  ground, 
And  at  night  is  heard, — 
Hath  over  my  listening  spirit  cross'd, 
Like  the  wailing  woe  of  a  spirit  lost ! 


THE    TWO    PROPHETS. 


Youthful  life  a  prophet  is  — 

Like  the  early  prophets 
la  the  Holy  Book; 

It  turns  toward  the  future 
With  too  bright  a  look: 

In  its  happy  wishing 
For  the  better  days, 

It  hears  not  friendly  voices 
That  warn  it  of  its  ways. 

(186) 


THE    TWO     PROPHETS.  187 

Dazzled  by  the  promise, 
It  heeds  the  warning  less, 

Forgetting  that  the  lips  that  warn 
Are  the  lips  that  bless. 

Aged  life  a  prophet  is  — 

Like  the  later  prophets, 
Mounting  as  they  go, 

O'er  the  wrecks  of  glory, 
Through  the  reigning  woe. 

In  the  evening  twilight, 
'Mid  the  evil  days, 

Age  laments  the  errors 
Of  its  youthful  ways. 

Had  it  loved  the  caution  more, 
And  the  promise  less, 

It  had  found  how  warning  lips 
Are  the  lips  that  bless. 


THE    SWALLOWS. 

Ye  call  to  mind  my  childhood  days, 
Ye  chattering,  twittering  birds; 

Ye  call  to  mind  my  father's  ways, 
My  mother's  looks  and  words. 

Ye  call  to  mind  the  work  and  play 

Of  many  a  pleasant  summer  day. 

I  see  you  skim  the  meadow  o'er, 

With  many  a  turn  and  bound  — 

Zigzagging  in  the  clover-fields, 
And  the  old  barn  around; 

The  heart-holes  in  the  gable  —  whew! 

Tweet !  —  like  an  arrow  ye  are  through ! 

(188) 


THE     SWALLOWS.  189 

Now  on  the  apex  of  the  roof, 
Ye  bowing,  chattering  sit; 

Say,  is  your  talk  reproof,  or  love?  — 
A  wheedle  or  a  twit? 

But  all  is  o'er  —  ye  cannot  stay  — 

A  downward  swoop  —  away,  awray  ! 

Returning  now,  what  have  you  found? 

A  worm?  —  the  fattest,  best? 
Yes,  see,  a  row  of  hungry  mouths 

Lie  open  round  the  nest. 
The  feast  is  short  —  cries,  as  before, 
Send  you  in  haste  to  seek  for  more. 

Ye  come  to  us  with  opening  Spring, 

"When  violets  appear; 
Ye  leave  us  when  the  chill  winds  bring 

The  Autumn,  brown  and  sere ; 
But  in  our  meni'ry  mirrored  lie 
Sweet  thoughts  of  you,  that  never  die  ! 


190  POEMS. 

Still  call  to  mind  my  childhood  days, 
Ye  chattering,  twittering  birds; 

Still  call  to  mind  my  father's  ways, 
My  mother's  looks  and  words. 

Still  call  to  mind  the  work  and  play 

Of  many  a  happy  summer  day. 


A    CONFIRMATION    HYMN. 

"Will  ye  also  go  away?"  — St.  John,  vi.  65. 


Oh,  what  crowds  the  Saviour  leave ! 
Oh,  what  hearts  His  Spirit  grieve ! 
Hark!  He  asks  us  all  to-day: 
"Will  ye  also  go  away?" 

ii. 

Many  have  professed  to  be 

Faithful  till  their  Lord  they  see; 

But  have  found  the  downward  way: 

"Will  ye  also  go  away?" 

(191) 


192  POEMS. 


Ill 


Many  at  His  altar  bowed, 
Ate  and  drank,  and  wept  and  vowed  ; 
Now,  how  fallen  !  —  Satan's  prey : 
"Will  ye  also  go  away?" 


IV. 

Think  of  dark  Gethsemene, 
Think  of  bloody  Calvary ; 
Think  of  what  you  vow  this  day : 
"Will  ye  also  go  away?" 


Oh,  the  pardon  bought  with  blood. 
Oh,  the  peace  and  heavenly  food, 
In  His  Church,  for  those  who  stay: 
"Will  ye  also  go  away?" 


A     CONFIRMATION     HYMN.  193 


VI. 

Friends  on  earth,  and  saints  above, 
Compass  yon  with  hope  and  love  — 
Father,  Son,  and  Spirit  say : 
4,AVill  ye  also  go  away?" 


A   HYME 


Jesus,  my  Shepherd,  let  me  share 
Thy  guiding  hand,  Thy  tender  care; 
And  let  me  ever  find  in  Thee, 
A  refuge  and  a  rest  for  me. 

II. 

Jesus,  0  lead  me  by  Thy  side, 

"Where  fields  are  green,  and  waters  glide! 

And  be  Thou  still,  where'er  I  be, 

A  refuge  and  a  rest  for  me. 

(194) 


A    HYMN.  195 


III. 

While  I  this  barren  desert  tread, 
Feed  Thou  my  soul  on  heavenly  bread; 
'Mid  foes  and  fears  Thee  may  I  see, 
A  refuge  and  a  rest  for  me. 

IV. 

Anoint  me  with  Thy  gladdening  grace, 
To  cheer  me  in  the  heavenly  race; 
Cause  all  my  gloomy  doubts  to  flee, 
And  make  my  spirit  rest  in  Thee. 

v. 

When  death  shall  end  this  mortal  strife, 
Bring  me  through  death  to  endless  life; 
Then  face  to  face  beholding  Thee, 
My  refuge  and  my  rest  shall  be. 


THE    BRIGHT    LAND. 


"  We  went  into  the  graveyard.  I  had  Wilsie  on  my  arm  when  I  stood  at 
the  graves  of  our  dear  babes,  and  when  he  saw  me  weeping,  he  put  his  arms 
round  my  neck,  and  his  face  close  to  mine,  as  if  he  would  comfort  me."  — 
From  a  Private  Letter. 


We  are  told  that  there  lies  a  bright  world 
beyond  this, 

Hid  now  from  our  sight: 
That  it  bathes  in  the  soft,  mellow  beamings 
of  bliss, 

And  knows  of  no  night! 
(196) 


THE     BRIGHT     LAND.  197 

Tis  the  land  of  the  sainted — the  Home  of  the 

Blest, 
Where  the  sinful  are  pure,  and  the  weary  at 

rest. 

II. 

Through  the  valley  of  death  lies  the  wonderful 

way 

Which  leads  to  that  Land; 

And  Jesus  Himself  guides  the  pilgrims,  they 

say, 

With  affectionate  hand. 

They  pass  through  the  valley,  and  reach  the 

blest  plain, 
Where  they  dwell  with  the  angels,  and  weep 

not  again ! 

in. 

The  gate  of  the  way  which  leads  on  to  those 
climes, 

They  say  is  the  tomb: 

17* 


198  POEMS. 

A  spot  in  the  churchyard,  that  opens  at  times, 

To  take  pilgrims  home ! 
The  flowers  that  bloom  there,  the  willows  that 

wave, 
Make  hopeful  and  peaceful  this  gate  of  the 


IV. 

I  strayed  to  this  spot;  for  my  own  infant  band, 

Called  off  to  their  rest, 
Had  gone  by  that  gate  to  the  beautiful  land 
Of  the  pure  and  the  blest. 
I  saw  where  they  entered;   for  a  few  vernal 

showers 
Had  not  covered  the  gate  with  the  grass  and 
the  flowers. 

v. 

They  are  gone! — And  I  wept;  but  the  tear- 
drops that  fell 

For  those  gone  to  rest, 


THE     BRIGHT     LAND.  199 

Caused  the  heart  of  my  hoy  with  new  fondness 

to  swell, 

As  he  leaned  on  my  breast. 
He  embraced  me  with  love,  whilst  his  eyes 

seemed  to  say: 
"  The  Bright  Land  is  their  home  who  pass  oft* 

by  this  way !" 

IV. 

Oft  in  visions  by  clay,  and  in  dreams  of  the 

night, 

I  watch  at  that  gate : 

While  faith  shows  me  much  that  I  learn  not 

by  sight 

Of  the  glorified  state. 

I  call  not  my  babes  from  the  bliss  that  I  see, 

Only  wait  at  the  gate  till  it  opens  to  me. 


A   BUD. 

A  beautiful  child, 

In  form  tender, 
In  aspect  mild; 

Thanks  to  the  Sender, 
Said  the  parents,  and  smiled 
On  the  beautiful  child. 

Soft  lustre  and  light 
Beam  from  its  eyes, 

Meekly  and  bright: 

So  dawns  from  the  skies, 

On  the  wanderer's  sight, 

Sweet  morn  out  of  night. 

(200) 


A     BUD.  201 

0  joy  to  the  child, 

So  young  and  tender, 
So  meek  and  mild ! 

Thanks  to  the  Sender, 
Said  the  parents,  and  smiled 
On  the  beautiful  child. 


THE    SUMMER  VISIT. 


Wife  and  the  little  folks, 

Going  away, 

Sometime  to  stay. 

Get  the  trunk  and  pack  it, 

Press  it  full  and  rack  it, 

Make  the  clothes  go  in  — 

No,  you  can't  begin; 

Trunk  is  full  and  more, 

And  yet  upon  the  floor 

There  is  enough 

Of  dressing  stuff — 

I  know  before  I  ask  it  — 

To  fill  a  bag  and  basket. 

(202) 


THE     SUMMER     VISIT.  203 

Wife  and  the  little  folks, 
Going  away,  — 
Starting  to-day. 
Going  off  to  grand-pa's, 
Going  off  to  grand-ma's, 

Laughing  all,  and  glad, — 
Why  should  they  be  sad? 
'Tis  a  year  and  more, 
Since  they  went  before;  — 
'Tis  very  right, 
And  a  delight  — 
Yea,  it  is  quite  exquisite  — 
To  go  home  on  a  visit. 

Wife  and  the  little  folks, 

All  gone  away, 

Five  weeks  to-day ! 
Wish  I  had  gone  likewise, 
Lonely  staying  this  wise. 

But  I  can't  go  now  — 

Hard  it  is,  I  vow ! 


204  POEMS. 

What  a  doleful  house ! 
Hark !  —  'tis  but  a  mouse  !  — 
Seems  so  queer, 
No  one  is  here. 
'Tis  for  noise  I  pine  and  sigh  — 
Want  to  hear  the  children  cry ! 

Wife  and  the  little  folks 
Coming  to  day  — 
Made  a  good  stay ! 
Think  I  see  the  little  chaps, 
Think  I  hear  their  knocks  and  raps  — 
Rushing  in  and  out, 
Looking  all  about. 

Think  I  see  my  wife, 
Bringing  joy  and  life. 
Hark!  —  a  fuss  — 
The  omnibus. 
Come,  ye  looked-for  earthly  blisses, 
Now  a  half-a-dozen  kisses ! 


GREAT    EFFECTS    FROM    LITTLE 
CAUSES. 

Where  the  Savannah  wends  its  lazy  way  — 

Five  hundred  year3  ago, 
An  idle  Indian,  on  a  summer  day, 
The  tedious  hours  in  hunting  whiled  away, 
With  flinty  dart,  and  bow. 

Up  started  from  the  copse  an  agile  deer : 
The  whizzing  arrow  sped 
Swift  as  the  wind;  but,  missing  clean  and  clear, 
Was  hurled  into  a  tender  sapling  near, 
And  buried  to  its  head. 
18  (205) 


206 


POEMS. 


Then  many  moons  and  seasons  came  and  went, 
And  centuries  rolled  around ; 

The  sapling  grew  a  tree ;  and  covered  was  the 
rent, 

While  in  the  oak's  deep  heart  the  arrow  pent 
Lay  in  the  hidden  wound. 

The  white  man  came  and  felled  the  mighty 

tree, 

As  timber  for  a  ship: 

The  noble  vessel  built,  'twas  joy  to  see 

The  swan-like  thing  of  beauty  plgw  the  sea, 

Bound  on  an  eastern  trip. 


Full  half-way  round  the  globe,  it  met  a  gale  — 

Fierce  was  its  sudden  sweep 

The  arrow-wounded  plank  was  first  to  fail, 

And  men  and  treasures,  'mid  the  storm's  wild 

wail, 

Sunk  in  the  dismal  deep ! 


CAUSE     AND     EFFECT.  207 

Thus  each  effect  hangs  on  its  distant  cause  — 
How  joined  we  may  not  see ; 

But  great  events  unfold  by  hidden  laws ; 

And  he  who  on  a  deer  his  arrow  draws, 
May  sink  a  ship  at  sea ! 


COLD    DISTANCE. 

Relieved  against  the  quiet  sky, 
Before  me  in  the  distance  lie 
A  range  of  mountains,  blue  and  high, 
In  dignity  serene. 

How  well  defined,  and  smooth,  and  cold, 
Like  metal  fashioned  in  a  mould, 
They  lift  their  brows,  unmoved  and  bold, 
And  wear  almost  a  frown ! 
(208) 


COLD     DISTANCE.  209 

I  draw  more  near,  and  then  I  see 
The  life  and  joy  of  flower  and  tree, 
And  hear  the  cheerful  minstrelsy 

Of  waterfalls  and  birds. 

In  nook  and  dell,  what  love  and  cheer ! 
For  now  a  thousand  charms  appear, 
To  please  the  eye,  enchant  the  ear, 
Bv  distance  hid  before. 


'Tis  thus  with  men  we  daily  meet 
In  public  marts,  and  on  the  street, 
And  silent  pass,  or  coldly  greet  — 

Statues  of  men  they  seem. 

But  yield  we  to  the  social  law, 
And  nearer  to  our  fellows  draw, 
What  as  a  statue  cold  we  saw, 

Is  full  of  life  and  love. 
18*  o 


PIOUS    FRIENDS. 

The  stars  that  nightly  shine  above  our  head, 

Illume  our  path  when  brighter  day  is  gone ; 
But  not  in  them  exists  the  lovely  light  they 
shed  — 
They  only  shine  as  they  are  shone  upon ; 
And  so  the  loves  that  greet  us  here  below, 
Are  lights  in  life's  dark  home  to  cheer  and 
bless, 
When  warm  and  bright  themselves  with  holy 
glow 
From  Jesus  Christ,  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 

(210) 


BIRDS  OF  PREY  PROHIBITED  AS  FOOD. 

When  birds  of  prey  are  by  the  Lord  forbid, 
And  not  to  Israel  allowed  as  food  — 

Methinks  there  is  in  this  the  wisest  lessons  hid, 
By  them,  perhaps,  not  fully  understood. 

The  Lord  would  teach  them  thus  to  dread  and 

hate 

The  spoiler,  and  the  preying  life  he  leads ; 

Lest  they,  by  loving  him,  should  in  their  hearts 

create, 

With  fondness  for  the  prey,  a  hankering  for 

his  deeds. 

(211) 


212  POEMS. 

The  Lord  designed  His  people  should  pursue 

The  husbandman's  and  shepherd's  quiet  way ; 
By  wise  restraints  of  law  He  thus  their  taste 
withdrew 
From  barbarous  and  uncertain  wanderings 
after  prey. 

And  thus  did  Israel  learn  to  love  the  quiet  vales, 
Where  fruits  and  flocks  their  honest  labors 
blessed. 
In  healthful  toil,  amid  fresh  scenes  of  rural 
peace, 
They  lived  devout  on  earth,  and  sought  in 
Heaven  their  rest. 


THE    GOOD    STORK, 


I  praise  thee,  good  stork,  from  my  heart ; 

Thou  art  such  a  true,  pious  bird; 

My  spirit  within  me  is  stirred 
To  practice  thy  dutiful  art. 

So  true  to  thine  offspring  when  young  — 
Good  food  for  thy  nurslings  to  bring; 
To  bear  them,  when  weak,  on  thy  wing, 

And  die  to  protect  them  from  wrong. 

(213) 


214  POEMS. 

So  kind  to  thy  parents  when  old  — 
By  them  in  their  dotage  to  stand, 
As  taught  in  the  holy  command : 

To  thy  praise,  pious  stork,  be  it  told. 

So  true  to  thy  partner  in  life  — 
Faithful  and  firm  to  the  last, 
Your  fortunes  together  are  cast, 

Till  death  ye  are  husband  and  wife. 

I  praise  thee,  good  stork,  from  my  heart ; 

Thou  bearest  a  pious,  good  name. 

Not  thine  is  a  mere  empty  fame, 
For  truly  a  good  bird  thou  art. 


THE    POOE    DRUNKARD. 

Oh  !  give  him  not  the  bowl, 

That  cruel  drink  of  death ! 
Think  of  his  deathless  soul : 

Hear  what  Jehovah  saith  — 
And  let  that  word  thy  warning  be  — 
"Xo  drunkard  shall  my  kingdom  see." 

Oh !  give  him  not  that  drink 
Which  helps  his  soul  to  die! 

But  draw  him  from  the  brink, 
And  win  him  for  the  sky; 

Or  will  you  give  him  still  the  bowl 

That  wrecks  his  body,  damns  his  soul ! 

(215) 


216  POEMS. 

Oh !  give  him  not  that  cup, 

He  is  thy  fellow-man ; 
Then  rather  bear  him  up, 

And  save  him,  if  you  can. 
He  craves — he  raves — he  begs — and  why 
Will  you  assist  his  soul  to  die  ? 

Then  give  him  not  the  bowl : 

Or  will  you  give  it  still? 
Then  on  your  guilty  soul 

Shall  burning  woes  distil ! 
Look  at  your  skirts  !  —  be  well  aware  — - 
His  blood — his  blood — his  blood  is  there  ! 


DEDICATION    OF    AN    ALBUM. 


To  afford  me  true  delight, 
On  these  pages  pure  and  white. 
Friend,  I  pray  thee,  only  write 
"What  is  good  and  what  is  true, 
Joy  to  me  and  praise  to  you. 
Have  you  thoughts,  oh  !  write  them  not, 
Which,  when  dying,  you  would  blot? 
19  (217) 


218  POEMS. 

Write  me  thoughts  that  shall  be  dear 
In  some  lonely  after-year, 
Whether  read  through  smile  or  tear. 
In  the  hour  when  memory  roves 
Over  past  and  perished  loves. 
Only  holy  thoughts  can  shed 
Light  where  hope  and  joy  are  fled 
With  the  absent  and  the  dead! 


STANZAS 


Lady.  Will  you  please  -write  in  my  album? 
The  Poet.  Certainly,  with  pleasure,  fair  lady. 


When,  in  festive  days, 

Music  sweet  we  hear, 
Lingering  long,  the  pleasant  lays 

Still  carol  in  the  ear: 
We  live  again  the  happy  time, 
By  listening  to  their  after-chime. 

(219) 


220  POEMS. 

So,  when  we  have  joyed 

With  those  who  won  our  love, 

We  cherish  still  their  fragrant  names 
Where'er  we  rest  or  rove ; 

And  any  relic  borne  away, 

Will  cheer  some  cloudy  after-day. 

Then  give  me  from  your  heart 
Some  earnest,  cheerful  line ; 

And  write  beneath  your  name, 
To  show  that  it  is  thine ; 

Then  here's  my  hand — good-bye,  good-bye, 

A  heaving  heart  and  a  tearful  eye  ! 


EPILOGUE. 


WRITTEN    FOR    THE    ANNIVERSARY  OF    THE    DIAGNOTIAN    SOCIETY  OF 
MARSHALL    COLLEGE,    JCLY    2,  1S47 


The  storm  is  over  now  —  the  livid  glare 
Of  learned  lightning  vanished  in  the  air; 
The  poesy  eloquent,  and  lofty  prose, 
Have  died,  as  bustle  dies  at  daylight's  close ; 
Kow,  as  the  joyous  earth,  refreshed  by  showers, 
Smiles  out  in  greener  grass  and  sweeter  flowers, 
So  may,  our  hearts  refreshed,  our  minds  more 

free,* 
Breathe  purer  air  —  with  brighter  vision  see. 

19*  (221) 


222  poems. 

It  was  a  stern  discharge — the  firing  keen, 
With  waves  of  stirring  music  rolled  be- 
tween. 
The  odds  were  fearful,  too ;  see,  but  a  few 
Upon  a  phalanx  of  some  hundred  drew, 
"With  wordy  vengeance ;  but  we  hope  no 

slain, 
Or  woanded,  shall  upon  the  field  remain. 
If  any  by  deep  sleep  were  shot,  please 

wake 
And  move  them,  for  the  cause  of  learn- 
ing's sake. 
As  to  the  exercises  just  now  closed, 
'Twere  vain  for  me  to  censure  or  to  praise, 
Since  things  strike  different  minds  in  different 

ways. 
One  calls  this  eloquent;  another,  rant; 
One  calls  that  flowery ;  another,  cant ; 
What  one  calls  logical;  another,  dry; 
One  loves  to  plod,  another  loves  to  fly. 


EPILOGUE.  223 

Some  think  that  words  can  do  it ;  some  think 

sound; 
And  some  think  gestures  sharp,  or  smooth,  or 

round ; 
Thus,  what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  crude, 
Finds  thousand  answers  in  a  multitude. 
The  golden  lines  that  tinsel  hill  and  tree, 
Are  in  the  prism  found  through  which  we  see; 
And  often  spots  which  dark  before  us  rise, 
Are  in  our  glasses  found,  or  in  our  eyes ! 
'Tis  thus,  the  fable  tells,  that  once  of  old 
The  people  thought  their  eyesight  failed:  they 

came, 
Complaining    much,   to   Jupiter,    and    asked 

that  he 
Might  give  them  glasses,  so  that  they  might 

see. 
Now  Jupiter  spread  o'er  the  heavens  a  cloud, 
From  which  he  thundered  angry,  long,  and 

loud  ; 


224  poems. 

At  last  it  rained  —  so  does  the  fable  tell  — 

And  spectacles  of  every  color  fell ! 

Clear,   green,   and  yellow,   purple,   red,   and 

blue, 
Came  tumbling   down  —  'twas  wonderful   to 

view ! 
O'erjoyed,  the  people  now  promiscuous  ran, 
To  take  the  gift  thus  sent  from  Jove  to  man; 
And  soon  astride  each  nose,  with  ease  and 

grace, 
A  pair  of  spectacles  had  found  a  place ! 

But  now  the  trouble  came  —  a  dreadful 

fight 
Arose  among  them  as  to  scenes  and  sight, 
As  to  the  color  even  of  a  house  or  tree, 
No  two  of  all  the  crowd  could  now  agree. 
One  looked,  and  leaping  high  for  joy,  cried 

out: 
"All  things  are  red!     How  red  the  trees 
about ! 


EPILOGUE.  225 

The  fields  are  red,  and  dark  Olympus  red, 
And  red  the  skies,  your  faces,  and  your 
head!" 
"Xo !  no ! "  another  cried,  "all  things  are  black 
As  pitch,  or  like  the  traveller's  midnight  track ! 
The  stars  are  black  —  the  ocean  black  as  ink ! 
Your  faces  black  as  Moors" — just  only  think! 
"Xot  so,"  exclaimed  a  third,  "  all  things  are 

blue!" 
"Xo,  they  are  yellow,"  said  a  fourth.     "Not 

true," 
Yelled    out    a    fifth:    "of   purple  —  glorious 

dye!- 
Is  earth,  Olympus,  sea,  and  air,  and  sky!" 
Thus  they  disputed,  and  to  fighting  went 
At  last;  and  many  words  and  blows  were 

spent 
To  ascertain  who  had  the  better  right 
To   make   his   glasses   standard   of   true 
sight. 


226  poems. 

And  thus  they  fought,  till  they  removed, 

by  blows, 
The  colored  spectacles  from  every  nose ; 
And  then  it  was  agreed,  with  one  consent, 
The  glasses  had  their  color  to  the  object 

lent. 
Agreed,  the  color  of  the  earth  and  sky 
Depended  on  the  glasses,  or  the  eye ; 
And  that  the  man  who  thinks  his  glasses 

best, 
Is  only  of  his  error  dispossess'd, 
When  controversial  knocks  dismount  his 

nose 
Of  colored  glasses.     So  the  fable  goes. 

From  this  we  all  may  learn,  and  clearly  see, 
That  if  in  judging  we  shall  e'er  agree, 
?Twill  be  because  we  have  before  agreed 
On  glasses  quite  from  ev'ry  color  freed; 
And  this  will  only  be  when  gentle  blows 
Of  thought  in  conflict,  take  from  ev'ry  nose 


EPILOGUE.  227 

The  colored  glass  —  then  we  shall  clearly  see, 
Through  truth's  pure  medium,  all  thiugs  as 

they  he. 
But  how,  you  ask,  shall  we  this  medium  find, 
Through  which  to  see  each  object,  well  defined  ? 
Your  question  shall  be  answered — just  attend 
To  laws  in  Xature,  on  which  sights  depend. 
"When  colors  of  the  rainbow  all  unite, 
They  form  one  medium,  clear,  and  pure,  and 

bright. 
Here  just  the  same,  you'll  find  it  ever  true  — 
If  mental  glasses,  made  of  every  form   and 

hue, 
Are  fused  together  in  one  solid  cake, 
'We  can  from  it  the  clearest  glasses  make : 
Glasses  by  which  no  colors  will  be  thrown 
Upon  the  object,  but  what  are  its  own. 

Thus  let  the  general  judgment  always  be 
The  medium  through  which  the  truth  you  see. 


228  poems. 

It  is  not  meant,  by  these  remarks,  at  all 
The  critic's  eager  judgment  to  forestall; 
O  no !  ye  knights  of  genius !  on  the  tripod 

placed, 
To  speak  in  oracles  of  sense  and  taste  — 
Cut  deep,  strike  hard,  and  give  a  deadly  thrust, 
But  know  the  color  of  your  glasses  first ! 


THE    INTERMEDIATE    ABODE. 


0  see  !  a  gloomy,  awful  world  is  this 
Where  spirits  are  detained.    'Tis  half  a  heaven 
And  half  a  hell !     What  horrid  mixture  here  ! 

1  see  before  me,  and  along  the  edge 

Of  rayless  night,  on  either  side,  the  shades 
Of  spirits  move — as  yet  unjudged,  undoomed, 
And  unrewarded.     Some  do  seem  to  hope ; 
Some  sit  in  gloom ;  some  walk  in  dark  suspense ; 
Some  agonize  to  change  their  state.     0  say ! 
Is  this  all  real,  or  fancy  and  a  dream  ? 

20  (229) 


REMEMBRANCE  OF  EARTH  IN 
HEAVEN. 


When  once  we  close  our  eyes  in  death, 

And  flesh  and  spirit  sever, 
When  earth,  and  fatherland,  and  home, 
With  all  their  beauty,  sink  in  gloom  — 
Say,  will  it  be  forever? 

Shall  we  in  Heaven  no  more  review 
These  scenes  from  which  we  sever? 

Or  shall  our  recollection  leap 

O'er  death's  dark  gulf,  at  times,  to  keep 
With  earth  acquaintance  ever? 

( 230 ) 


REMEMBRANCE     OF     EARTH.  231 

In  life  we  love  the  blessed  part, 

It  clings  upon  us  ever; 
The  songs  of  childhood  and  of  home, 
Like  music,  when  the  minstrel's  gone, 

Live  in  our  hearts  forever. 

The  child's  included  in  the  man, 

And  part  of  him  forever; 
The  Past  ev'n  in  the  Future  lives, 
And  basis  to  its  being  gives, 

Not  it  —  but.  of  it  —  ever. 


Thus  shall  we  still  in  Heaven  review 
These  scenes  from  which  we  sever; 

Oft  shall  our  recollection  leap 

O'er  death's  dark  gulf,  nor  cease  to  keep 
With  earth  acquaintance  ever. 


THE    CRISIS 


I  have  watched  the  drops  of  rain  — 
Clear  drops  of  rain,  that  to  the  eaves  hung  fast, 

Pure  drops,  without  a  soil  or  stain : 

I  knew  their  tremulous  hanging  could  not  last; 

Yet  did  they  hang,  till   softest  breeze  swept 

past, 

When  down  they  fell, 

And,  sad  to  tell, 

Were  oue  with  mire  and  bubbles  in  the  pool 

below. 

(232) 


THE     CRISIS.  233 

Lave  watched  the  thistle-down  — 
The  soft,  white  thistle-down  —  that  hung 

On  leaves  by  Autumn's  frosts  made  brown  — 
Hung  hooked  with  tiny  grasp,  hung  fast  and 

long, 
Till  softest  air  that  played  the  leaves  among, 
Bore  it  away  — 
Behold !  it  lay 
A  drenched  and  floating  wreck,  upon  a  dull, 
dark  pond. 

I  have  seen  a  tender  youth  — 
A  youth  erst  bound  in  heart  by  sweetest  ties — 

By  sweetest  ties  to  God  and  truth  : 
Who  seemed  for  honor  made,  and  made  to  rise, 
Till  subtle  evil  came,  in  smooth  disguise  — 
Came  with  a  smile, 
Came  dark  and  vile, 
Came  with  its  tarings,  and  its  blast  of  death ! 
20* 


SMOKING    SPIRITUALIZED.1 


IN    THREE    PARTS. 


The  First  Part  being  an  old  meditation  upon  smoking  Tobacco : 
the  Second,  a  new  addition  to  it,  or  improvement  of  it :  the 
Third  is  added  by  the  Author. 


PART    I. 

This  Indian  weed,  now  wither'd  quite, 
Though  green  at  noon,  cut  down  at  night, 
Shows  thy  decay; 
All  flesh  is  hay  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

1  "  This  poem,  the  Second  Part  of  which  was  written  by  Mr. 
Erskine,  is  here  inserted,  as  a  proper  subject  of  meditation  to 
smokers  of  tobacco." 

(234) 


SMOKING     SPIRITUALIZED.  235 

The  pipe,  so  lily-like  and  weak, 
Does  thy  mortal  state  bespeak. 

Thou  art  even  such, 

Gone  with  a  touch  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  when  the  smoke  ascends  on  high, 
Then  thou  behold'st  the  vanity 

Of  worldly  stuff, 

Gone  with  a  puff — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  when  the  pipe  grows  foul  within, 
Think  on  thy  soul  defil'd  with  sin ; 
For  then  the  fire 
It  does  require  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  seest  the  ashes  cast  away ; 
Then  to  thyself  thou  mayest  say, 


236  poems. 

That  to  the  dust 
Return  thou  must  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

PART    II. 

Was  this  small  plant  for  thee  cut  down? 
So  was  the  Plant  of  great  renown ; 

Which  mercy  sends 

For  nobler  ends  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Doth  juice  medicinal  proceed 
From  such  a  naughty  foreign  weed? 

Then  what's  the  power 

Of  Jesse  s  flower  ?  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  promise,  like  the  pipe,  inlays, 
And  by  the  mouth  of  faith  conveys 


SMOKING     SPIRITUALIZED.         237 

What  virtue  flows 
From  Sharon  s  rose  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

In  vain  th'  unlighted  pipe  you  blow ; 
Your  pains  in  outward  means  are  so, 

Till  heav'nly  fire 

Your  heart  inspire  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  smoke,  like  burning  incense,  tow'rs; 
So  should  a  praying  heart  of  yours, 

With  ardent  cries, 

Surmount  the  skies  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

PART     III. 

Unpleasant  first  the  weed  appears, 
But  by  degrees  itself  endears ; 


238  poems. 

So  hateful  sin 
Allures  us  in  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  taste,  as  every  smoker  knows, 
Still  stronger  with  the  habit  grows; 
So  wrong  desires 
Are  growing  fires  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

But  once  for  aye  you  can  employ 
The  self-same  weed  you  now  enjoy; 
So  life  you  spend 
But  once  can  end  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Ere  you  can  smoke  the  fragrant  weed, 
Its  preparation  must  precede; 
So  all  our  good 
Cost  pains  and  blood  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 


SMOKING     SPIRITUALIZED.         239 

Your  smoking  wants  each  day  return ; 
So  must  your  heart  in  longings  burn 

For  grace  to  die, 

And  rise  on  high  — 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 


FIRE  AT   HAMBURG,   AND   THE   OLD 
BELL-PLAYEE. 


The  correspondent  of  the  New  World  closes  an  interesting 
account  of  the  recent  conflagration  at  Hamburg  (1842),  with 
the  following  thrilling  incident:  "You  all  know  that,  in  the 
most  of  the  German  and  Belgian  towns,  the  church-steeples 
are  provided  with  musical  bells,  which  play  once  or  twice  a 
day,  generally  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  in  the  evening.  The 
church  of  St.  Nicholas,  too,  was  provided  with  such  a  set  of 
musical  bells ;  and  the  bell- player,  an  old  grey-haired  man  of 
seventy,  was  either  too  infirm,  or  unwilling  to  quit  the  stony 
castle  from  which  he  had  been  for  years  calmly  watching  the 
tide  of  men  below.  No  one  thought  of  the  poor  guardian  of 
the  house  of  God  until  the  steeple  was  wrapped  in  fire,  and 
the  firm  walls  that  had  stood  for  ages  began  to  shake ;  when 
the  bell  sounded  the  well-known  German  choral  that  usually 
concluded  the  Protestant  service:  "Now  thank  ye  the  Lord" 
(Nun  danket  alle  Gott).  Another  moment  —  a  crash!  — bells 
and  musician  were  buried  in  the  same  fiery  grave  ! — the  bell- 
player  stood  before  his  God  ! " 

(240) 


FIRE     AT     HAMBURG.  241 

A  burning  city  !  — Hamburg  is  on  fire  !  — 
Towers,  temples,  courts,  and  lofty  halls  of  state, 
As  wrecks  half  seen  lie  in  the  fiery  sea. 
The  red  horse  leads  the  host  to  battle  now, 
With  hungry  sword  of  flame.     From  roof  to 

dome, 
From  dome  to  spire,  in  majesty  and  might, 
The  fiery  courser  leaps,  and  treads  the  strong 
To  earth ;  while  in  dark  clouds  his  blasting 

breath 
Ascends  toward  the  lowering  heavens  ! 

Now,  hark ! 
The  anxious  cry  of  "help"  is  heard  around. 
Distracted  looks  are  seen,  and  fervent  prayers 
Are  said.     And  there  is  hurrying  off  for  life, 
Yet  looking  back  —  as  did  the  wife  of  Lot, 
When  God  consumed  the  cities  of  the  plain  — 
Because  their  hopes,  their  homes,  their  all  is 

there ! 
Poor  hopes  that  perish  thus — unworthy  homes 

21  Q 


242  poems. 

So  easily  destroyed.     Shame  on  that  all 
Which  flames  consume! — as  said  the  pious 

bard : 
"He  builds  too  low  who  builds  beneath  the 

stars." 

Oh !  what  an  hour  was  that,  when  on  the  quiet 

air, 
Through  street  and  lane,  echoed  the  dreadful 

cry  — 
"Fire!  fire!  fire!"     From  mouth  to  mouth, 

from  ear  to  ear, 
Like  instant  thought,  the  loud  alarum  flew; 
While  tower  awakened  tower  with  deep-toned 

knell, 
Till  busy  echo,  with  its  thousand  tongues, 
Brought  to  each  ear  the  stifling  cry — "fire !  fire !" 

In  halls  of  guilty  mirth  now  ceased  the  dance; 
And  Jubal's  giddy  sons  laid  down  in  haste 


FIRE     AT     HAMBURG.  243 

The  maddening  shell.     Now  quick  the  curtain 

dropped 
O'er  beauty's  pride.     The  sparkling  wine-cup 

fell, 
Just  as  the  fiery  bubbles  poised  to  break, 
With  new-refreshing  floods  of  sin  and  death, 
Upon  the  waiting  lip ;  and  sinful  joy 
Like  angry  serpents  struck,  with  spirits  flagg'd, 
Retired.     And  there  were  frantic  looks,  and 

hands 
That  shook,  and  eyes  that  wept,  and  cheeks 

that  lost 
Their  blood !     For  'twas  as  if  the   dreadful 

God, 
As  at  Belshazzar's  feast  profane  of  old, 
Spoke  Mbnb  Tekel  to  their  guilty  souls ! 

Long  from  thy  godless  fanes,  0  Hamburg !  rose 
Stench  for  th'  Almighty's  nostrils.     Thy  altars 
oft. 


244  poems. 

Like  Hin non's  bloody  vale,  sent  up  to  heaven 
The  smoke  of  dark,  forbidden  rites.     But  He, 
"Who  from  his  lofty  seat  looks  down,  to  watch 
The  play  of  little  man,  sleeps  not.     He  shows 
His  silent  presence  in  the  city  vast, 
As  in  the  lowly  cot.     Mysterious  are 
His  ways ;  yet  by  the  humble  rightly  read. 
His  love  abused,  doth  often  turn  to  wrath ; 
But  ever,  too,  His  wrath,  if  meekly  borne, 
And  penitently  met,  is  turned  to  love. 
"Wouldst  thou,  O  Hamburg!  rightly  read  the 

frowns 
Which  darken  now  a  Heavenly  Father's  face  ? 
Attend  a  parallel  in  humble  life. 

A  tender  mother,  with  a  joyous  breast, 
Bends  o'er  her  first,  her  lovely,  smiling  babe. 
Oh !  what  a  wreath  of  love  grows  round  her 

heart, 
As,  day  by  day,  she  sees  new  beauties  dawn: 


FIRE     AT     HAMBURG.  245 

The  varying  lights  and  shades  of  flesh  and 

blood 
Upon  its  face :  those  lovely  orbs  in  which 
The  light  without  meets  greater  light  within, 
When,  like  the  dawn  of  morning  out  of  night, 
The  first  self-consciousness  illumes  the  soul. 
Then  first  upon  the  mother's  vision  opes 
The  joyous  world,  in  all  its  sun-bright  charms. 
A  sense  of  beauty,  joy,  and  love,  as  from 
A  new-created  world,  stirs  in  her  soul. 
Canst  feel,  in  smallest  part,  her  blessed  joy? 
Canst  fancy  how   she  loves  that  gem  from 

Heaven  ? 
Canst  think  that  worlds  would  buy  that  angel 

pledge?  — 
Bright  mirror  that  reflects  the  sacred  bliss 
Of  early,  tender  love  !     Canst  feel  with  her  ? 
See  how  she  lays  its  glowing  cheek  to  hers, 
And,  in  a  mother's  fondest  language,  says: 
"This,  father,  is  our  own,  our  only  child!" 

21  * 


246  poems. 

Mysterious   God!     The  moment  when  these 

words 
Are  scarcely  said,  that  cheek  is  cold  —  those 

eyes 
Stand  still — that  face  is  pale — that  baby  smile 
Fades  instant,  like  the  rosy  blood  from  cheeks 
Of  happy  ones,  wThen  greeted  with  sad  news ; 
And  death — cold  death  —  sits  shivering  on  its 

brow! 
In  that  sad  hour  of  woe  and  tears,  there  comes 
From  God,  in  whisper  to  that  mother's  heart, 
"  I  love  you  and  your  child.     Come,  kiss  the 

hand 
That  took  your  fondest  hope  away."     That 

babe  — 
Her  god !  —  had  chained  its  mother's  heart  to 

earth, 
And  there  was  none  for  Him.    He  kindly  took 
It  to  Himself,  that  she,  her  idol  gone, 
Might  set  her  heart,  bereaved,  on  things  above ; 


FIRE     AT     HAMBURG.  247 

And  there  herself  and  it  most  truly  find. 
Said   He   not  well:    "I   love   you   and   your 
child"? 

!Twas  the  same  love,  disguised  in  fiery  wrath, 
Which  lit,  0  Hamburg !  thy  devouring  fires ; 
And,  could  you  hear  it,  from  the  raging  flames, 
Which  turn  to  ashes  all  you  worshipped,  loved, 
A  kindly  voice  from  Heaven   comes,   which 

says: 
"I  love  you  still.     Cease  now  from  man,  from 

wealth, 
From  earth  and  sin,  and  own  there  is  a  God !" 

But  now  I  mind  me,  there  were  holy  men 
Still  found  within  thy  walls,  proud  capital; 
And  one  at  least  had  never  bent  his  knee 
To  Baal.     Like  holy  Anna,  when  the  Christ 
Appeared,  he  in  the  sacred  temple  dwelt. 
Upon  his  head  the  snows  of  seventy  years 


248  poems. 

Have  spent  their  bleaching  power.  From  his 
high  home 

In  yonder  tower,  with  many  thoughts  devout, 

The  aged  saint  has  watched,  through  tedious 
years, 

The  restless  tide  of  human  life  below ; 

Well  has  he  learned  the  madness  of  the  world; 

Long  has  he  preached,  with  tongue  of  wide- 
mouthed  bell, 

At  morn,  at  noon,  and  in  the  silent  eve, 

The  value  great,  and  solemn  flight  of  time ; 

And,  rolling  solemn  chorals  on  their  ears, 

E'en  in  the  midst  of  worldly  din  and  noise, 

To  silent  piety  men's  hearts  attuned. 

In  vain  !     The  worldly  crowd  swept  madly  on ! 

Not  so  this  saint  and  sage.  Well  does  he 
know 

How  earthly  treasures,  e'en  while  worshipped, 
fade, 

And  wisely  sent  the  cargo  of  his  hopes 


FIRE     AT     HAMBURG.  249 

Before  him  to  the  safe  eternal  port ; 

And   waits   but    for   a   friendly   heaven-ward 

breeze 
To  bear  him  to  his  treasures  and  his  rest. 

Behold  !  the  fire  feeds  on  St.  Nicholas, 

In  whose  grey  tower  he  dwells !     The  angry 

flames 
Begin  to  lash  the  spacious  dome  !     The  walls, 
"Whose  hoary  might  through  ages  have  with- 
stood 
The  battling  of  the  storm,  the  silent  wear 
Of  time,  begin  to  tremble,  like  the  sides 
Of  Etna,  pregnant  with  internal  fire. 
In  that  dread,  anxious  hour,  forgotten  is 
The  pious  guardian  of  the  house  of  God, 
Till  —  hark !  —  as  oft  before,  those  well-known 

bells, 
In  sweetest  strains,  roll  on  the  startled  air 
The  old,  familiar  German  choral  hymn : 

KUN  DANKET   ALLE   GOTT  ! 


250  POEMS. 

Nun  ■  danket  alle  Gott  — 

The  Lord  of  earth  and  Heaven ; 
To  Him,  by  every  tongue, 
Be  praise  forever  given. 

Our  souls  may  well  confide 
In  God,  our  guard  and  guide; 
He  will  our  wants  supply 
Through  life,  and  when  we  die. 

Nun  danket  alle  Gott  — 

He  loves  His  needy  creatures; 
That  love  is  still  the  same, 

Though  wrath  o'erclouds  His  features ! 
Sweet  light  and  love  divine 
Behind  His  judgments  shine: 
As  richest  rainbow  dyes 
Are  seen  in  darkest  skies. 

Nun  danket  alle  Gott  — 

Come,  fire  !  —  thou  bed  of  roses ! 

Be  thou  my  body's  grave  — 
My  soul  in  Christ  reposes. 


FIRE     AT     HAMBURG.  251 

I  bless  His  holy  name   m 
Amid  this  fire  and  flame; 
I  sink  —  I  die  —  I  live  !  — 
Oh!  what  a  sweet  reprieve! 
Nun  danket  alle  Gott! 


Crash  !  crash !  —  the  walls  have  fallen  !     The 

bells  ceased ! 
The  tower   sunk  in  that   sea   of  fire !      And 

while  — 
Like  angels  leaving,  but  by  love  detained  — 
The  echoes  of  that  choral  hymn  —  the  last  — 
Still  whiles  with  sweet  delay  along  the  hills, 
The  holy  man  who  played  the  bells  is  gone ! 
His  ashes  mingled  with  the  molten  flow 
Of  his  beloved  bells,  with  whose  last  tones 
Of  truest  worship,  up  his  spirit  rose, 
Soon  as  his  final  Hymn,  to  meet  his  God ! 
As  last  on  earth,  so  first  in  Heaven,  he  sang: 
Nun  danket  alle  Gott ! 


THE    HIDING-PLACE. 


A  man  shall  be  as  an  hiding-place  from  the  wind,  and  a  covert  from  the 
tempest.  —  Isaiah  xxxii.  2. 


Jesus,  to  Thy  cross  I  hasten, 

In  all  weariness  my  home; 
Let  Thy  dying  love  come  o'er  me  — 
Light  and  covert  in  the  gloom 
Saviour,  hide  me, 
Till  the  hour  of  gloom  is  o'er. 

(252) 


THE     HIDING-PLACE.  253 

II. 

When  life's  tempests  wild  are  rolling 

Fearful  shadows  o'er  my  way; 
Let  firm  faith  in  Thee  sustain  me, 
Every  rising  fear  allay. 

Hide,  oh !  hide  me, 
Hide  me  till  the  storm  is  o'er. 

.  in. 

When  stern  death  at  last  shall  lead  me 

Through  the  dark  and  lonely  vale; 
Let  Thy  hope  uphold  and  cheer  me, 
Though  my  flesh  and  heart  should  fail. 
Safely  hide  me 
With  Thyself  forevermore. 


22 


TO    AINA. 


Do  you  ask  a  wish,  Annfc*— 

Some  happy  wish  from  me? 
Let  me  think,  and  well  combine 
All  I  wish,  in  one  short  line: 
'Tis  my  wish  that  you  may  be 
Holy,  happy,  heavenly ! 

Take  this  as  my  "Wish,  Annft£ 

( 254 ) 


TO     ANNA.  255 

Do  you  ask  advice,  Anna'^ 

Some  good  advice  from  me? 
Tis  that  you  in  faith  abide 
Closely  by  your  Saviour's  side; 
Like  Him,  harmless  as  a  dove, 
Live  to  labor  and  to  love. 

This  is  my  Advice,  Ann&£ . 

Do  you  ask  a  prayer,  AnniuC- 
A  pastor's  prayer  from  me? 
'Tis  that  you  may  never  stray 
From  the  narrow,  heavenly  way; 
But  in  safety  reach  that  shore 
Where  they  part  and  die  no  more. 
This  your  pastor  prays,  Anna. 


ELEGY  ON"  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CLASS- 
MATE. 

Farewell  !  farewell !  thy  earthly  work  is  done. 
Thy  sands  have  ebbed  their  last.     The  hour 

has  struck. 
Thy  bark's  unmoored.    The  last  returning  wave 
Dies  on  the  shore  you  leave  —  and  thou  art 

gone. 
Safe  home  !  —  I  wave  thee  yet  this  last  adieu  ! 

'Twere  fitter  thou  shouldst  weep  for  me,  than  I 
For  thee.     Thou  art  the  living,  I  the  dead  ! 
Thy  toils  are  o'er ;  thy  cumbrous  load  of  clay 

(256) 


DEATH     OF     A     CLASSMATE.  257 

Xo  more  shall  weary  thee ;  passion,  disease, 
Temptation,  and  unholy  thoughts,  no  more 
Shall  make  thee  weep.    Ambition's  wily  voice 
No  more  to  thee  shall  whisper  wicked  things, 
Hold  thee  until  the  hour  is  late,  in  lone 
Communion  with  thy  books,  and,  vampire-like, 
Gorge  on  thy  health,  till  thou  art  but  a  wreck. 

Thy  seat  is  empty  now;  thy  voice  is  mute; 
Thy  room  is  lone;  thy  lamp  no  more  sends  out 
Its  sickly,  flickering  ray,  at  midnight  hour, 
With  fitful  flash,  into  the  drowsy  gloom. 
Thy  books  have  rest,  e'en  as  thyself. 

Sleep  on. 
The  grave  is  dark,  but  harm  disturbs  not  there. 
Death  called  thee  soon.    Thy  life  was  morning 

yet; 
Thy  joys  were  young;   thy  fears  were  few. 

The  dew 
Of  orient  life  yet  freshened  in  thy  heart 

- 


258  poems. 

In  sunny  hopes ;  and  it  seems  hard  so  soon 
To  die  !  Yet  sweetest  far  is  morning  sleep, 
And  lightest  morning  dreams;   and   ere  the 

rust 
Of  sin  can  blight  the  spirit's  early  bloom, 
The  favored  season  is  to  plume  for  Heaven. 

And  yet  my  heart  feels  dole  that  thou  hast 

left! 
There  is  a  void,  as  in  a  tree,  when  winds 
Have  robbed  it  of  a  branch.     How  doleful  is 
The  vacant  space !  —  and  memory  ever  strives 
To  see  it  as  it  was,  but  strives  in  vain ; 
Yet  mourns  the  ruin  with  a  sad  delight. 
Though  thou  art  in  the  grave,  where  dust  to  dust 
Returns — still,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
When  moon  and  stars  look  radiant  love  from 

heaven, 
I'll  watch  with  them  thy  lonely  grave,  and  sigh 
To  think  that  thou  art  gone. 


DEATH     OF     A     CLASSMATE.  259 

Kest,  rest  in  peace ! 
I  would  not  call  thee  back;  for  what  is  life 
But  prelude  sad  to  death  ?     Earth  mocks  our 

hopes; 
We  only  smile  that  we  may  freer  weep. 
Whene'er  we  love  we  find  a  hidden  wound, 
"When  what  we  love  is  lost.   We  meet  to  part; 
But  —  blessed  hope  !  —  we  part  to  meet  again. 


A  Christian  thou!    Ah!  this,  thy  dearer  name, 

Is  full  of  melody;  and  by  this  name 

'Tis  sweet  to  say  adieu  !     For  death  to  thee 

Was  but  the  way  to  life  —  a  nearer  way 

Thy  early  death ;  as  when  a  traveller, 

By  heat  and  burden   pressed,  lays  down  his 

load, 
And  sweetly  dreams  himself  in  sleep  away 
To  where  his  journey  ends.    Oh  !  passing  sweet 
Must  be   the   Christian's    sleep ;    soft   his  rc- 

po.se ; 


2G0  POEMS. 

Holy  bis  dreams  —  bright  dreams  of  heavenly 

bliss, 
That  will  not  vanish  when  the  morning  comes. 

Adieu  !  adieu  !  friend  of  my  heart,  adieu ! 
The  kindly  angels  guide  thee  on  the  way: 
The  bright  assembly  of  the  saints  at  home, 
And  He,  thy  God,  thy  everlasting  rest, 
Receive  thee  to  the  land  of  hope  fulfilled. 


CHILD'S    CHRISTMAS    HYMN. 


Long  ago, 
A  little  child, 
Meek  and  mild, 

Came  from  Heaven. 

It  was  Jesus : 

At  an  inn, 

In  Bethlehem, 

He  was  born. 

(2G1) 


262  poems 


It  was  night 
In  winter  time ! 
The  wind's  sad  chime 

Was  heard  around. 


His  cradle 
Was  a  manger; 
But  no  danger 

Came  to  Him, 


Hosts  of  angels 
Hailed  His  coming, 
Sweetly  humming 

Christmas  hymns. 

His  kind  Mother 
Watched  His  cradle, 
In  the  stable 

Where  He  slept. 


CHILD'S     CHRISTMAS     HYMN.        263 

Jewish  shepherds 
Heard  the  story, 
Saw  His  glory, 

And  were  glad. 

Heathen  sages 
From  afar, 
Saw  His  star, 

And  brought  Him  gifts. 

Gentle  Jesus, 
I  will  bring  Thee, 
I  will  sing  Thee 

Christmas  hymns. 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    KILL. 


Give  me  answer,  if  you  will, 
Whither  goest  thou,  little  rill? 
Leaping,  laughing,  night  and  day, 
Like  a  happy  child  at  play. 
Cooling  here  the  parched  tongue; 
Running  there  the  herbs  among, 
With  a  gurgling,  babbling  flow, 
Ever  cheerful  as  you  go. 
"  Through  the  meadow,  field,  and  wood, 
On  my  mission,  doing  good." 

(2G4) 


THE     SONG     OF     THE     RILL.  265 


II. 

Busy  wanderer,  going  still: 
Now  it  turns  the  heavy  mill  — 
Now  upon  its  bosom  wide 
Puffing  boats  of  commerce  ride. 
First  it  spoke  in  murmurs  low, 
"Doing  good  —  for  this  I  flow." 
Xow  the  deep,  the  rolling  flood, 
Echoes  louder,  "Doing  good." 

in. 

In  the  ocean's  trackless  deep 
Idle  will  its  water  sleep? 
iSTo !  on  sunbeams  rising  high, 
Cloud-borne  floats  it  on  the  sky, 
And,  in  rain  descending,  yields 
Blessings  to  the  parched  fields. 
On  the  grass  and  flowers  strewed, 
In  rills  gathered,  doing  good. 
23 


266  poems. 


IV. 


Thus,  as  erst,  it  speeds  away, 
Sports  again  like  childhood  gay, 
Babbling,  singing,  as  it  should, 
"On  my  mission,  doing  good." 
O  that  he  who  his  life  long 
Idles  time,  would  catch  its  song; 
And,  like  it,  become  a  flood, 
Earth  to  bless  by  doing  good ! 


TRANSLATIONS 


(207) 


TRANSLATIONS 


HYMN    OF    BENAVENTURA 


[from    the    latin.] 


Make  the  Cross  your  meditation, 
All  who  long  for  full  salvation: 

Joy  in  it  for  evermore. 
Look  up  to  the  Cross  and  love  it, 
There  is  nought  on  earth  above  it  — 

Oh,  forget  it  nevermore ! 
23  *  ( 269 ) 


270  TRANSLATIONS. 

II. 

Toiling,  resting,  smiling,  weeping, 
Glad  or  mournful  vigils  keeping, 

Comforted  or  sorrowing: 
Going,  coming,  ever  raise  it 
To  your  faith ;  and,  whilst  you  praise  it, 

Joy  from  it  be  borrowing. 

in. 

In  sore  trial  and  affliction, 
Think  of  Jesus'  crucifixion, 

Drawing  comfort  from  the  Cross; 
Seek  its  blest  relieving  power 
In  each  dark,  distressful  hour, 

For  its  gain  count  all  things  loss. 

IV. 

By  Thy  Cross,  O  suffering  Son, 
Our  lost  Paradise  is  won  — 

By  Thy  death  the  faithful  live; 


HYMN     OF     BENAVENTURA.  271 

From  Thy  life  come  virtues,  stealing 
O'er  the  world,  with  richest  healing  — 
"Wond'rous  joy  Thy  Cross  can  give! 

v. 

Cross  of  Jesus! — vital  curing, 
Light  of  truth  and  peace  enduring 

For  our  souls  are  found  in  Thee; 
Treasury  filled,  and  failing  never, 
Whence  our  souls  may  draw  forever 

Grace  to  perfect  piety. 

VI. 

Mirror  of  the  soul,  reflecting 
Holy  light  and  power  perfecting, 

Cheering,  strength'ning  steadily; 
To  the  saints  by  it  is  given 
Glorious  aid  in  winning  Heaven, 

Furnished  freely,  readily. 


272  TRANSLATIONS 


VII. 


Cross !  thou  tree  of  purple  blooming, 
Best  of  balm  is  thy  perfuming  — 

All  thy  fruit  with  grace  is  rife; 
Millions  on  this  fruit  have  flourished, 
Millions  now  by  it  are  nourished 

Fitted  for  the  heav'nly  life. 

VIII. 

Jesus  !     O  Thou  crucified ! 
Jesus !  who  for  me  hast  died ! 

Praise,  praise  for  Thine  agony ! 
Clinging  to  Thy  Cross,  and  sighing 
O'er  my  sins,  and  o'er  Thy  dying, 

I  am  wholly  lost  in  Thee ! 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER. 

[FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  KLOPSTOCK.] 

Round  planets  moons  are  circling, 

Planets  round  suns ; 
And  all  suns  are  rolling 

Round  one  grand  sun  — 
Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven  ! 

On  all  these  planets,  opaque  and  radiant, 
Dwell  spirits  in  forms  and  powers  unlike ; 
But  all  rejoicing  and  praising  our  God  — 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name. 

S  (273) 


274  TRANSLATIONS. 

He,  the  exalted  one, 
Who  alone  Himself  doth  fully  know, 
And  fully  in  Himself  rejoice  — 
He  the  deep  plan  conceived 
Which  offers  Heaven  to  all  — 
Thy  kingdom  come. 

Well  for  all,  that  not  they,  but  He, 
The  present  and  the  future  rules. 
Well  for  all  —  well  for  us: 
Thy  will  be  done  on  earth, 
As  it  is  in  Heaven. 

He  on  the  stem  sustains 

The  bending  ear; 
He  makes*  the  golden  apple  ripe  — 

The  purple  grape. 
He  on  the  hills  prepares  the  grass 

For  tender  lambs; 
He  in  the  gloomy  woods  doth  feed 

The  hungry  deer. 


THE    lord's    prayer.  275 

But  He,  too,  rolls  fierce  thunder, 

And  doth  send  the  hail. 
lie,  too,  the  harvest  blights,  and  breaks 

The  graft  with  golden  fruit  — 
Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread. 

Say,  are  there,  above  the  thunder's  path, 
Mortals  and  sinners  found? 
Can  His  wrath  be  turned  to  love, 
Or  will  it  bear  us  down  to  death? 
Forgive  us  our  debts, 
as  we  forgive  our  debtors. 

Divided  paths  lead  on  towards  the  goal  — 

Toward  eternal  blessedness. 
Some,  curving,  lie  through  solitudes; 
Yet  even  on  these  fresh  joy  doth  bud 

Beside  the  lonely  way; 
And  living  waters  cool  the  thirsty  lip. 

Lead  us  not  into  temptation; 
But  deliver  us  from  evil. 


276  TRANSLATIONS. 

We  worship  Thee ! 
Who  round  the  central  Sun  dost  lead 
Harmonious  Suns,  and  Earths,  and  Moons; 
Who  spirits  didst  create, 
And  didst  create  their  bliss; 
Who  dost  sustain  the  kindly  fruits; 
Who  makest  sinners  dead  to  live; 
Who  scatterest  hope  and  joy 
Along  the  path  that  leads  to  Thee; 

We  worship  Thee ! 
For  Thine  is  the  Kingdom, 
And  the  power, 

And  the  glory, 
Forever, 

Amen! 


THE    EAGLE. 


[from  the  latin.] 


How  well   the  tawny  chief  of  birds,  whom 

thundering  Jove  selects 
To  bear  his  armor  when  in  war,  his  tender 

young  protects ! 
He  cherishes,  with  anxious  heart,  his  unfledged, 

strengthless  brood, 
And  brings  them  daily  from  the  chase,  fat  wild 

meat  as  their  food. 

24  (277) 


278  TRANSLATIONS. 

Soon  as  their  downy-feathered  wings  with  age 

increase  their  strength, 
And  milder  air  and  spreading  plumes  invite 

them  out  at  length, 
He  takes  them,  timid,  on  his  back,  with  kind 

parental  care, 
And  spreads  his  wings  triumphantly  across  the 

fields  of  air. 
Though  fearing  for  his  burden,  his  pinions 

move  like  oars 
Or  bending  sails,  as  up  from  earth  toward  the 

clouds  he  soars : 
Still   onward,  to  the  deeps  above  —  still  on 

through  rarer  skies, 
Still  on,  toward  the  place  of  stars,  on  rapid 

wing  he  flies; 
And  proudly  now,  in  circling  sweep,  he  sails 

'mid  upper  light, 
Then  sinking  back  to  earth  again,  he  trains 

his  brood  for  flight. 


THE     EAGLE. 


279 


Thus  tutored  by  parental  skill  —  their  pinions 

taught  to  dare  — 
They  learn,  with  fond  and  fearless  wing,  to 

trust  themselves  to  air. 
Thus  from  this  bird  may  parents  learn  to  train 

the  young  with  care. 


OTTK   NATIVE    LAND. 

[FROM     THE     FRENCH.] 

We  pilgrims  on  life's  toilsome  way, 
Are  pressed  by  ills  on  either  hand; 

But  sorest  is  his  state  and  stay, 

Who's  exiled  from  his  Native  Land. 

In  favored  hours,  soft,  balmy  sleep 

May  o'er  his  grief  its  wings  expand ; 
But  when  he  wakes,  he  wakes  to  weep 

His  absence  fro  m  his  Native  Land ! 

(280) 


OUR     NATIVE     LAND.  281 

Forgetfulness  the  exile  seeks, 
But  vainly,  on  a  foreign  strand; 

Of  home  and  friends  his  memory  speaks, 
And  fresh  recalls  his  Native  Land. 

With  generous  soul,  and  noble  heart, 
He  may  each  fear  and  foe  withstand; 

Yet  secret  loyal  tears  will  start- 
Brave  tribute  to  his  Native  Land! 


24 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  FATHER. 

[PROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  CLAUDIUS.] 

Let  peace  around  this  tombstone  be  — 
Sweet  peace  of  God.     Ah  !  they  have  laid 
A  good  man  here  beneath  this  shade ; 

And  more  than  good  was  he  to  me. 

Blessings  he  shed  on  me  like  dew ; 

He  guided  me  like  a  mild  star 

That  shines  from  better  worlds  afar; 

Ah !  no  reward  can  pay  his  due. 

(282) 


MY   father's    grave.  283 

He  fell  asleep  !  They  laid  him  here ; 
Mild,  sweet  assurance  comes  from  God, 
And  breathes  blest  fragrance  o'er  this  sod, 

That  heals  the  sorrow,  stills  the  tear. 

And  here  he  rests,  from  trouble  free, 
Till  Jesus  with  a  smile  shall  call 
His  dust.     Oh  !  he  was  good  to  all  — 

And  more  than  good  was  he  to  me. 


THE    GKAVE    GIVETII    BEST. 

[THE   FAVORITE   GERMAN   HYMN,   "  IM   GRABE   1ST  RUhV] 

The  grave  giveth  rest. 
There,  weary  ones,  weighed  down  with  sorrow, 
In  slumber  shall  borrow 

The  peace  of  the  blest. 

There  sleeping,  the  heart, 
By  cares  and  temptations  unshaken, 
Shall  rest;  and  awaken 

Where  sorrows  depart. 

(284) 


THE     GRAVE     G  I  V  E  T  H     REST.         285 

To  death's  frieDclly  shore, 
They  corne  not,  life's  ills  —  dreary  number!  — 
We  reach  it  through  slumber, 

And  pain  is  no  more. 

Then  bear  your  unrest, — 
And  yield  not  to  sorrow  and  sadness; 
But  sing  on  with  gladness, 

The  grave  giveth  rest. 


THE     END. 


